Harry of the Vale
by ScipioSmith
Summary: Harry Arryn, only son and heir of Lord Jon Arryn, dreams of the life of another man, in another world. But when he is sent to woo the maiden Lysa Tully, events at Riverrun propel him into conflict with Brandon Stark, the brother of his best friend, and with Jaime Lannister the golden lion of Casterly Rock.
1. Chapter 1

Green Dreams

 _"No! Not Harry, please!"_

 _"Stand aside, foolish girl!"_

 _"No! Harry!"_

 _Green light. A bright flash of green light and cold, high pitched laughter ringing in his ears. Soaring through the air on wings that he could not see, dragons breathing out rivers of fire, creatures swathed in dark cloaks, reaching out for him with rotting hands._

 _And the green light, always the bright green light and the laughter, that cold and soulless laughter that admitted not a shred of pity or remorse._

Harry Arryn awoke, one hand moving upon instinct to wipe the sweat from his brow. His knuckles rubbed against the scars on his side of his face as they did so.

 _More of those dreams._

He had been having dreams like that for a few years now, ever since Robert had struck him in the face with his warhammer in the training yard. An accident, to be sure - if it had been deliberate Harry would probably be dead right now - but it had given him some intriguing scars down the left side of his face, come close to robbing him of an eye, and had knocked him unconscious for several hours. Since then, he had started having strange dreams. Not strange in the usual sense that they were bizarre or ridiculous, like the dream on which he flew around the Eyrie on a gryphon that talked like his father, but strange because they felt so real, as though he were not dreaming but remembering the life of another man. Some things were vague, true, the green light, the laughter, but there were other things he dreamed: a green boy with hair as red as fire and a temper to match, a sweet maid with a mind as sharp as the Giant's Lance, a white-bearded maester sending him to die for the greater good.

Harry shivered. He had no desire to meet the Seven just yet. Archmaester Rigney had proclaimed - at great length that had nevertheless avoided tediousness - that time was a wheel, spinning on and on, turning as it willed, ages passing as legend became myth with no true beginnings or endings. Had Harry believed that, no, that was not right, he could have believed that, and in believing he could have accepted that the bold boy and all his kinsfolk and the sweet maid and the maesters cruel and kind were in truth the memories of another life, another man whom he should not have remembered but had for reasons only the gods could tell. And yet some of what he dreamed...grumpkins and snarks, flying metal wheelhouses with wheels clad in some black substance he could not put a name to, coaches belching out smoke as they charged down iron rails, flying horses, flying broomsticks...a singer would find such things too fanciful, and yet in his dreams they seemed as real as the stone walls in his chamber in the Eyrie, as real as the tapestry hanging on the wall of Artys Arryn defeating the First Men, as real as he lay here within this bed. And that was not the most of it.

Harry climbed out of bed, fumbling beneath his pillow as he climbed to his feet. He found what he was looking for: a stick of wood the length of a longish knife, smooth and varnished, narrowing to a rounded tip. This stick, this...this wand, Harry half-feared to say the name aloud but there it was...he dreamed of this alongside boy and maid and maesters and the iron coach. And he dreamed...

Harry pointed the stick, the wand, at the empty tin water bowl that sat beside the door in his chamber. "Aguamenti."

And lo, the bowl filled with water as though some Dornish water-singer had commanded it so. But Harry could do much more than make the water come. He was no wizard such as the singers told of, he could not fight off a dragon with the power that was in him, nor make a storm that shatter a whole fleet to proud and mighty ships to kindling nor bury an army nor do any of the other things that wizards did but...but he remembered things, words standing out amidst a blur of chatter, and those words had power.

Harry shoved his wand back under his pillow - he showed it to no one, not even Ned or Robert, just as he told no one, not even his lord father, especially not his lord father, of the things he dreamt of - and walked quickly over to the water basin, splashing some of the cold water he had conjured over his face.

His fingertips lingered for a moment on the scars that Robert had given him. Eight small gashes across his temple and cheek, where the studs of Robert's hammer had pierced his skin and scraped a little to the right. Though they had made him look careless, and a little hard to look upon, when he was a green boy, now that he was a man of twenty years grown they made him look more roguish than he deserved.

Until people found out exactly how he had come by these scars, anyway.

Harry pulled on a tunic in the sky blue of House Arryn, and a pair of dark breeches, buckling on his sword even as she strode out of his room.

"Good morrow, Ser Harry," Collyn Arryn was there to greet him more punctually than the dawn itself, standing outside of Harry's chamber, dressed and armed and ready and alert and, all in all, looking far better and more prepared than did the knight he squired for at this moment.

"Good morning, Collyn," Harry said, stifling a yawn out of respect for the young squire, and shame that a boy of twelve was showing up a man of twenty. "You needn't push yourself so hard for me."

"It's no trouble, Ser, I get all the sleep I need."

Harry turned around to look his young squire in the eye. Collyn hailed from the Gulltown Arryns, a junior branch of the House, very wealthy but not quite top draw as far as blood went as a result of the same marriages that had brought them their wealth. His hair was blond, a little floppy and soft for all that he was yet cutting it short, and his blue eyes and fair face would doubtless make him a heartbreaker when he grew to manhood. That time had not yet come, however, and as of yet it was only his eagerness that prevented him from looking awkward. That same eagerness also made him a damn good squire. A better squire, Harry sometimes suspected, than he deserved.

"If I pushed you to hard, you would tell me, wouldn't you?" Harry asked.

"That wouldn't be possible, Ser Harry," Collyn said eagerly. "It is an honour to serve you, however you wish."

"Why?"

Collyn faltered. "I…I don't understand."

"Why is it an honour to serve me?" Harry asked. "What have I done to be worthy of your service?"

Collyn frowned. "You are the son and heir of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East."

"Is that all?" Harry murmured.

"No!" Collyn cried. "I am proud to be your squire, Ser Harry. I would squire for no one else, though your lord father or mine own of His Grace the King himself were to command it."

"And why not?" Harry asked again. "What have I do to inspire such slavish devotion in you?"

Collyn looked down at the ground. "Ser, many a time I have watched you in the duelling yard match blades against Ser Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, your father's wards. You have not the strength of Ser Robert, and even Stark is I think your better in the finer points of swordplay. And yet…you never hesitate to match swords with them again, and again if need be. I…your valour…you have that in you which I would call lord, Ser; above all others."

Harry snorted. "You flatter me beyond my desert, Collyn. And yet I thank you for it nonetheless."

"No thanks are needed, ser."

"Harry."

"Ser."

"You needn't call me Ser, Collyn, especially when we're alone," Harry said. "Better yet you can call me Hal, like my friends do."

"As you wish, Ser Hal."

"No, I," Harry chuckled. "Never mind. Shall we break our fast."

"Actually, Ser, your father asks you to join him in his solar to break fast with him in private," Collyn said. His face turned red. "I should have told you of this sooner, forgive my foolishness."

"Don't trouble yourself, Collyn, I'm sure the porridge won't go too cold," Harry declared insouciantly, in part to disguise his curiosity as to why his father wished to break fast with him in private. Usually they would do so in the great hall, with Ned and Robert and any guests and retainers present that day. _What does he want that is so important that it cannot be discussed in public?_ "Go ahead and grab something to eat, I know the way." _And it is supposed to be a private meeting, after all._

"Yes, Ser Hal, and thank you," Collyn said, bowing his head before walking away in the direction of the great hall.

Harry watched him go for a moment, before he started on his own way to Lord Arryn's solar. He shivered a little as he walked down the dark stone corridors. Even in the midst of summer the Eyrie could be cold, if only because the early Arryn's had built so high up on the mountainside. They even got some summer snows, which had amazed Robert when first he came here, although Ned had taken it very much in stride, as Harry gathered that Winterfell saw much the same phenomenon. As a matter of fact, as he passed one of the windows he could see a light dusting of snow in the garden outside, though in the Valey below them the crofters were taking in a rich harvest of wheat and grain and barley, enough to feed the Vale of Arryn and fill the bottoms of the Gulltown merchantmen bound for White Harbour and Kings Landing and the Free Cities.

 _My ancestors certainly built high,_ Harry mused as he walked through the castle, hearing the wind whistling through the open casements, with the sound of his boots upon the stone the only sound at present. It was a curious feature of the Eyrie, one that probably stemmed from its vertical structure, that sound did not carry very far. There were times when the castle would ring with laughter, usually because of something that Robert had done, but you need not go very far for the laughter to appear to die, and the whole world to descend into silence, broken only by the wind.

Harry frowned. He disliked silence, not least because they invited his mind to dwell on things like his dreams, which he would rather not subject to too much thought. There was undoubtedly something to them, the power was real after all, but at the same time…that didn't mean that he wanted to think too deeply about the fact that he had been another man once, had another life, with other companions. Had he had other lovers, too? A wife, a family? Had this other him, this other Harry, raised a strong house, had strong sons and fair daughters? Had he wed the sweet and clever maid, or the sister of his fire-haired friend, or mayhaps the waif with silver hair who spoke such strange things in his dreams of her? Had his life been full of laughter, had his name resounded with honours and glories, had men bowed their heads to him out of respect? Or had he died in futile ignominy, forgotten even by his boon companions?

Pointless to speculate, which was why Harry preferred not to do so…and yet the empty silences of the Eyrie invited such speculation. Archmaester Rigney had speculated that, if ever someone could come to know of their past lives in the turnings of the Wheel, if ever a man came to remember his past in another turning…then that man would be driven mad by what he knew, broken by the futility of his actions. In every generation men would be born, live, die, in every age men would fight the Great Other (Harry did not understand who that was, or why men would fight him in every generation, but Archmaester Rigney seemed convinced upon the point), there were no endings or beginnings in the Wheel. If you not only knew that, in the academic sense, but had actually accept that through experience, so the Archmaester said, your mind would be broken.

Harry's mind had not been broken yet, but he was worried that it would get there if he thought about these sorts of things too long.

He made his way to his father's solar. Osbert was on guard outside the door, and he nodded to Harry as he made way. Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing the portal behind him.

Lord Jon Arryn sat waiting for him at his desk, a plate of apple cakes and blood sausage set before him. The Lord of the Eyrie was a man who had seemed old when Harry was but a boy, and yet despite his thinning white hair and straggly white beard he simultaneously managed to seem as though his strength was not impaired for all his years. Harry's mother, Rowena Arryn, had died in childbirth, and Harry did not even remember her. For all his life had known only his Lord Father…and the memories of another woman he had once called mother.

 _Of course Lily died before I really knew her as well._

Harry scowled. He tried not to think like that, but sometimes he couldn't stop himself. His father was Jon Arryn, his mother was Rowena Arryn. Whoever Lily had been…whatever she had been to another man named Harry…she was not his mother.

"Is something the matter, Harry?" Jon asked in a deep, strong voice that belied any impression of weakness that his age might have given.

"No, my lord, nothing," Harry replied quickly. "You sent for me."

"I did. Sit," Jon commanded, gesturing to the empty chair before him.

Harry sat down, and gave a tentative glance in the direction of the blood sausage and black pudding.

"If you wish," Jon said, causing Harry to snatch a sausage and a black pudding each to place upon his empty plate. As it became clear that his father had something to say, Harry started to eat.

"You cannot be unaware of the alliances that I have forged with my fellows great lords," Jon declared. "Or of the ties that soon will bind together four of the seven great houses of these kingdoms: Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, will wed Catelyn Tully, daughter of Lord Hoster; Lord Rickard's daughter Lyanne will wed Robert Baratheon-"

"And you yourself have been given Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon to ward, even as you sent cousin Elbert off to Winterfell," Harry said, putting down his sausage. "All this I know, father. Why does it need a private meeting to remind me of it?"

"Because a wardship is not a marriage," Jon said sharply.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You are a second father to Robert and Ned both." _Especially Robert, whose first father is long passed now._

"But Brandon Stark and Edmure Tully know me not, and they will rule from the seats of their fathers one day," Jon replied.

"They would both be fools to throw away the work that their fathers did in building this alliance," Harry said. "There hasn't been anything quite like it in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Perhaps there is a good reason for that," Jon murmured. "Make no mistake, Harry, we are precariously placed. If the King should believe…should he evens suspect…we have a great opportunity here, but all opportunities bring risk. I would have our alliance stand on firmer ground than my wardship of Robert." Lord Jon was silent for a moment. "And Hoster Tully has another daughter. Lysa, a maid of fifteen years unwed."

"Ah," Harry said. "Now I understand."

"Do you?" Lord Jon asked, turning a critical eye on Harry. "What do you understand?"

"That I am to wed Lysa Tully," Harry said. "Fifteen years a maid unwed, is there something wrong with her?"

"No more than is wrong with a knight of twenty years unwed," Jon replied with a touch of asperity in his voice.

Harry raised his hands and smiled in what he hoped was a disarming manner. "Had you made a match before, father, I would have said the vows."

"I make one now," Lord Jon said. "Or try to. The fact of the matter is, Harry that you will not wed Lysa Tully unless you win her first."

Harry frowned. "She'll not wed a man she does not love? That is unusually considerate of Lord Hoster." _Unusually decent of him, too._ Regardless of what he had said about wedding any woman his father had chosen for him, Harry could not but feel that there was something skin-crawlingly indecent about old men making matches on behalf of their young sons and daughters, spending their children like coin in games of political advantage. He could not think from where this madness in him derived unless it was from the memories of that other Harry, but there it was. He did not speak of it, for Robert would mock him roundly for such nonsense and Ned would not understand, nor anyone else either, but he felt it all the same. He was glad to see that Lord Hoster Tully appeared to be better than the general run of patriarchs.

"It would be unusually considerate, and unusually foolish were that the case," Jon declared. "But since Lord Hoster is no fool then I have no idea where you got such a ridiculous idea."

Harry shook his head. "If I need not woo the lady's favour then what is the difficulty?"

"Lord Hoster believes that we should expand our alliance yet further," Jon said. "At the very least he is open to the idea. He is entertaining suit from Tywin Lannister on behalf of his heir, Jaime."

"Hoster Tully favours Tywin Lannister over you?" Harry asked.

"He writes me that he favours neither of us yet, but that he wishes to inspect our sons."

"Ah, yes, the cattle market school of match-making," Harry muttered.

"Jaime Lannister already makes his way to Riverrun from Crakehall. You will set out at once for Riverrun yourself, to woo and win the Lady Lysa for our house."

"Is it that maid that I'm to woo, or her lord father?" Harry asked.

"You shall win neither of them to our cause with that sharp tongue of ours, keep it sheathed," Jon said sharply. "Jaime Lannister is half a boy still, for all his promise. Show that you possess the fine qualities of a man and of a knight and you will win I have no doubt."

Harry rose to his feet. "You honour me with your trust."

"You are my son," Jon said. "My only son and heir to the Eyrie and the Vale and all the east. Win the hand of Lysa Tully and I will know that all I have, the future of our house, will be safe with you when I am gone."

 _No pressure then._

"As you command, lord father," Harry said. "I will pack and mount and be gone by the end of the day."

Jon nodded. "Good fortune attend you, and may the Maiden bless your wooing of the maiden."


	2. Ned and Robert

Ned and Robert

Robert slapped him on the back hard enough to make Harry reel forward a couple of paces. Both he and Ned had come down with Harry as far as the Gates of the Moon, where his cousin Ser Denys held court, to send him on his way. "Seven speed you, Hal, and good fortune with that Tully maid. I daresay you'll have an uphill tilt to impress her after she's laid eyes on Brandon Stark, eh Ned? A lance a dozen feet in length, were those not his very words?" the Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands roared with laughter at the crude innuendo, complete with vigorous thrusting gestures that left no doubt as to his meaning.

The smirk on Ned's face gave the lie to his disapproving shake of the head. "Yes, indeed, his very words. My brother, the heir to Winterfell."

Harry chuckled. "Well, Brandon Stark's long lance aside, it's Lord Hoster I must needs impress if I'm to get the maid to wife." He grinned. "And besides, I'm no poor jouster myself."

Robert laughed again as he gripped Harry's shoulder tight. "Oh, aye, I'm sure that red-haired Jenny would swear to that, by the old gods and the new! Maybe best not to mention those jousts to Lord Hoster though."

"Thanks, Robert, I was going to tell them all about my b*st*rd son," Harry said. Jenny was a peasant maid who lived down the foot of the Giant's Lance with red hair; more than red it was like fire to look on, so bright, so long... Harry wasn't sure why, but he'd always had a thing for redheads. Something about red hair, it just... he dreamed of it, so often. A maid with hair like fire, a maid that he desired, a maid that he would rend and tear and kill for. It seemed that they had left a lingering effect on him in more ways than one.

And she had given him a son, Albin by name, about of an age with Robert's daughter Mya. Lord Arryn's disapproval meant that Harry saw the boy less often than he ought, but he made sure that Jenny was provided for, and when the boy was older Harry meant to see him well taught.

Robert sighed. "Oh, Hal, I shall miss you on a bawdy night when you are betrothed and can no longer hold my flank. What will I do without you?"

"Betrothal hasn't stopped you," Harry pointed out.

"Betrothal to my sister," Ned remarked pointedly.

Robert had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. "A man has needs, Ned, you know that. Or would, if you weren't made of ice. You know I mean no dishonour or disgrace upon Lyanna, I love her, Ned. When we are wed I'll put aside all savour of my rakish youth and live so pure and wholesome that septons shall be amazed at my reformation, so long as it shall make her happy. I swear it, Ned, by all the seven, by the old gods and the new, or string me up by the heels in the larder and call me a smoked ham."

Harry and Ned exchanged glances. Robert was a fine man, bold and loyal, but Harry doubted that he had it in him to endure the night celibate state that men called fidelity in marriage. He loved life too much - he loved women too much, more to the point - to cage it all within the bonds of matrimony. Harry had no doubt he meant the vow he had just made, but vows came easily to Robert Baratheon; he was made of that hardy and heroic measure from whose lips oaths leapt as easily as common words fell from the mouths of lesser men. Some oaths he found the keeping of more easy than others, and Harry had the suspicion that he would find the keeping of this particular vow most arduous.

And yet for all his faults he was the best of them. Warmer than Ned, more honest than Harry, bluff and genial with a laugh that made other men want to laugh with him, and a jovial manner than could tolerate even to be laughed at when he deserved it, though his fist was ready at the end of a strong arm to smash the teeth in of any man who laughed at him when he did not deserve it. A mighty warrior and a chivalrous knight, a towering figure of a man with strength to match, he was without compare, a knight amongst knights and a man among men.

That was why Harry knew that he could get away with saying what he did. "If you turn into a septon, Robert, then when I am Lord of the Eyrie I will give up all my lands and live as a begging brother in the Mountains of the Moon, or truss me up like a sack of turnips."

Robert looked sorely offended, but the twinkle in his blue eyes showed he was more amused than genuinely hurt. "Sweet Hal, you doubt my word of honour?"

"We doubt it's honour that guides your lance," Ned muttered.

Harry and Robert looked at him.

"What?" Ned asked. "Don't look at me to give you two ideas of how you can stuff me into a barrel of oranges."

"Too late, Ned," Robert declared happily. "But you two do me wrong, when have I ever broken faith with any man, having sworn my solemn word to them."

"With man? None," Harry said. "But with woman often."

Robert laughed. "You are as cruel as Tears of Lys, Hal. I should be mocking you as you set out but you have turned all my blows straight back on me."

Harry shrugged. "I cannot turn your hammerblows aside so easily in the training yard, if I could not match you with words I would be a forlorn fellow indeed. But what reason would you have to mock me, is the maid hideous?"

"Brandon writes that she has nothing to compare against her sister Catelyn," Ned said. "He mentions Lysa very little, just to say that he was grateful it was to Catelyn he was betrothed and not her..."

Harry folded his arms. "Go on, Ned, you might as well finish."

"And not her shy, plain sister," Ned concluded.

Robert laughed as he slammed his hand once more into Harry's back. "Shy and plain, Hal, doesn't it make anticipation swell in you?"

"Shyness is nothing," Harry said, waving one hand dismissively. "Perhaps I'll be gentle with her in my turn, and woo her with soft words and kindness."

"That will impress Lord Hoster without doubt, to wed his daughter to Lord Arryn's girl," Ned said.

Harry's attempt at a haughty and disapproving look was marred by the smile that crinkled his face. Ned's plain, long face and tendency to dourness hid a tongue as sharp a serpent's tooth when he chose to wield it. He lacked something of Robert's merry manner and thus he could not so easily put men at their ease; it was fortunate that he had been born second son to the lord of Winterfell, for he always seemed more content to follow than to lead.

Or perhaps it was being but second born had made him so. Who could really tell?

"Well then, Ned, being so wise, what council do you have for me in this?" Harry asked.

"Don't worry about Jaime Lannister!" Robert declared, before Ned could speak. "Who is he anyway, a mere stripling boy, neither knight nor man. He'll not unhorse you in the tilt, not by the Warrior."

"The gold of Casterly Rock would make a capering dwarf look an attractive match, I fear," Harry replied.

"Lord Tywin has a capering dwarf for a son, yet has not offered him in marriage," Robert said.

"If gold were all Lord Hoster wanted he would not entertain your father's suit," Ned remarked. "But he does entertain it, and willing is to entertain you. Most like that means it is a strong husband he seeks for his daughter, and a pot of gold."

"Mayhap you should tell him about the boy," Robert said. "It shows your seed is strong."

"Mayhaps it might, Robert, but though I must woo Lord Hoster I must live all my days afterwards with Lady Lysa," Harry said. "Ned, good Ned, wise Ned, friend Ned have you no council for your dear friend Hal?"

"You ask me this, when I am no more betrothed than you at present?"

"I ask you this because you pay best attention when my father speaks," Harry replied.

Ned pondered the question for a moment. "Lord Hoster Tully is said to have a particulare care for his smallfolk. My father speaks well of him for it, and Brandon is amused by it. It may impress him that you are known to keep your vows."

"Indeed, a veritable Duncan the Tall, you are Hal," Robert said.

"You praise me more than I deserve," Harry said. "But it may work. And I have no better ideas. Thank you, Ned."

Ned and Robert followed Harry out into the courtyard, where Collyn was waiting with Harry's horse, along with twenty men of Lord Arryn's guard who would escort him against the menaces of the mountain clans. The air was chill against his face as Harry pulled on his gloves and mounted his mare.

"Does being betrothed change a man, Robert?"

Robert glanced at Ned. "In faith, Hal, it has made me sober, earnest and responsible. Couldn't you tell?"

Ned snorted.

Harry grinned. "I'd tell you to stay out of trouble while I'm gone but, well, what would be the point?"

Ned smiled. "Good fortune, Hal."

"Aye, seven blessings."

Harry nodded courteously, and held out his arm as, with a shriek, his gyrfalcon Hedwig - another name he recalled from his strange dreams, one that appealed to him - swooped down through the air to land upon his wrist. She shrieked in greeting at him before she began to preen her tawny feathers.

"Good morning to you as well," Harry remarked.

"Are you ready, Ser Harry?" asked Collyn.

"I am indeed," Harry said. "Let us ride."


	3. Saving People Thing

Saving People Thing

Harry felt the blow upon his shield, shuddering as the steel blade slammed into the seasoned oak. He leaned back, just a fraction, before turning his shield sideways to drive the blade of his opponent away to his left. His own sword flickered out, a tongue of steel glimmering in the light of the dying sun.

The flat of the blade came to rest less than an inch from Collyn's neck.

Collyn pouted. "In battle, Ser, my armour would stop such a blow."

"Maybe," Harry allowed, stepping away. "Or maybe your squire would have forgotten to put your armour on properly and there's a gap."

"I've never let you down like that, Ser Harry."

"I was speaking hypothetically, Collyn," Harry replied, turning his back on the young squire for a moment to gaze at the Mountains of the Moon that rose, snow-capped and forbidding, up on all sides of them like a forest of jagged teeth eager to swallow whole the Vale. His company had passed the Bloody Gate two days earlier, and were now on the High Road through the Vale; a few more days would bring them to the Riverlands. A few more days would bring them out of the jaws of these mountains.

"Is something wrong, Ser Harry?" Collyn asked.

Harry glanced back him. "I told you, Collyn, my friends call me Hal."

"Is something wrong, Ser Hal?"

"Almost certainly not," Harry replied quickly. [i]The moon clans will have grown bold indeed to attack us, well armed as we are.[/i] "Still, it never hurts to be prepared." Harry whistled, and at his call Hedwig flew over from the old dead tree upon a branch of which she had made her perch to land on Harry's arm. She screeched, then bit his ear affectionately.

Harry smiled in spite of the pain. "I know, you were resting. Just take a quick look around for me, would you?"

Hedwig cocked her head to one side, and chirruped quietly. Then she took off, soaring up into the darkening dusky sky in counterpoint to the descending sun.

"You fear the wildlings, Ser?" Collyn asked.

Harry frowned. "Don't call them wildlings, Collyn; they're men, just like we are."

Collyn's expression was confused. "They're savages."

"That's just a word you give your enemies so that you can kill them with a clear conscience," Harry replied. "If someone where to conquer the Vale and drive us up into those mountains how long do you think we could maintain civilised values?"

Collyn's mouth twisted with distaste. "They raid and they kill and they-"

"And when they do those things we rightly bring justice to them," Harry said. "But I won't condemn every last one of them out of hand." He paused for a moment. "Collyn, what is it that defines a knight?"

Collyn blinked, seeming thrown by the change of subject. "Ser?"

"A knight, Collyn, what defines him?"

Collyn looked down at his feet. "His horse, Ser, and armour and lance."

"Anyone can own a horse and armour, Collyn, anyone can tilt a lance well if they practice," Harry said. "A knight is defined by his vows: defend the innocent, protect all women."

"They say that wil- they say that clan women can be right vicious, Ser," Collyn said.

Harry chuckled. "Some of them can, but amongst those mountains there will be some who are innocent, and those I will not condemn."

"Because you are a knight, Ser?"

"Because I try to be a good man," Harry replied. "But, yes, the vows help me to know what that means."

A piercing screech from the sky drew Harry's attention upwards. Hedwig was a dash of white and tawny against the blue, circling twice above the camp of the Valemen, crying out in a high piercing tone, before soaring off again above the High Road to the southwest.

"What do you think it means, Ser?" Collyn asked.

After a couple of hundred yards Hedwig turned back again, and cried out once more, before flying away. It was as if she were saying _Follow me, you idiots! This way!_ to people too dense to get the point.

 _What did you see, girl?_ "I think it means trouble," Harry said, sheathing his sword and jogging swiftly across the camp. He had only a leather jerkin and his shield for armour and protection, but who knew what foul mischief might be perpetrated while he clad himself in mail, or how far away the villains might escape by the time he reached the scene of their crime.

"Ronnet!" he cried as he swung himself up into his horse. "Pick six men and follow me as quick as you can, the rest to remain here and guard the camp. Collyn, stay here."

"But I'm your squire!" Collyn cried. "I can-"

"You are my squire, and so I don't want to explain to your father how I got you killed," Harry replied. _Or mine, for that matter._

Ronnet was the commander of the Arryn guardsmen, one of Lord Jon's oldest serving men, broad shouldered and with a grizzled auburn beard. "Wait just a moment, Ser Harry, and we can-"

Hedwig shrieked again.

"No time," Harry said. "Follow swiftly." He heard Ronnet mutter something about his 'saving people thing' as he jerked his horse back from the picket line and put knees to her, sending the destrier cantering down the High Road with Harry's sky blue cloak fluttering behind him like a banner.

 _Saving people thing. As though compassion were a sin, or at least a worse folly than callousness._ And this, at times, from men like his lord father who were anointed knights just as he was, who had knelt before the Warrior's image, who had been anointed with the oils as kings and prophets were anointed, who sworn the sacred vows even as he had sworn. And yet they chided him, or mocked him what was worse, merely for endeavouring to live up to the vows that he had made.

 _In the Warrior's name, I charge you to be brave._ And yet he was supposed to cower within his camp protected by the swords and spears of a score of Arryn men whilst, for all he knew, some defenceless traveller on the road fell victim to the malice of brigands or the fury of the mountain clans.

 _In the name of the Mother, I charge you defend the weak and innocent._ Yet he should sit idle while the innocnent suffered, and tell the Mother what? That it was inconvenient to keep his oath? That he had put his own comfort and his safety first? He had sworn vows to act with honour and with chivalry in all things; not 'when he felt like it' or 'when there were no risks involved' or even 'when he had nothing better to do', but always. He was a knight, sworn and anointed, and he would not disgrace that honour by failing to live up to it.

And besides, going to the aid of those in peril could never be the wrong thing to do.

Hedwig screamed, and this time she was answered by another scream rising upward from ground level; a woman's scream.

 _In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women._

Harry rounded the bed, dust flying up from the hooves of his horse, to cast eyes upon the sight before him: a cart, tipped upon its side, all goods scattered across the road and the fields beyond; an old man, unmistakably dead, his head split open; a carthorse, trapped in the harness, whinnying as it struggled to free itself; and a girl with bushy brown hair, eyes wide with terror, surrounded by a dozen mountain tribesmen (and one woman that Harry could spot right away), all clad in thick furs that made them seem bigger than they already were, wearing scraps of leather and metal, with faces painted and bodies marred with patches of burned flesh.

 _Burned Men. Of all the luck._

Of all the clans of the Mountains of the Moon the Burned Men were by far the strongest and the cruellest. The common wisdom was that they were all born madder than a Targaryen, and given their penchant for self-mutilation Harry found it hard to disagree.

Still, the Warrior had charged him to be brave, and so Harry let out a loud war cry as he scraped his sword free from his scabbard and urged his horse forwards to fall upon the mountain men while they were unaware.

"For the Eyrie! Arryn! Arryn!" Harry howled, cutting down the first Burned Man from behind, his blade slicing into the fellow's back with a sickening crunch as blood splattered across Harry's leg and the flanks of his horse. The onward rushing progress of his destrier sent another mountain man flying backwards, howling in pain as he savaged by the hooves of Harry's well-trained steed, while Harry brought his sword down upon the head of a third Burned Man, splitting his head like an egg.

The Burned Men were turning to face him now, brandishing their crude weapons of stone and flint, howling in anger as they left the defenceless girl behind and closed instead upon the young knight, like the hunting hounds which abandon the bear cub as soon as the mother comes in view and bellows at them in her anger.

One Burned Man, braver or more foolish than the rest, made a grab for the reins of Harry's mouth, but the horse deftly stepped away and bit the clansman into the bargain, making him shriek in agony and fall back clutching at his hand. Another clansman swung a stone axe crudely at him, but Harry turned the blow with his blade and countered, opening up his enemy's face.

He didn't see the arrow coming.

Harry felt himself knocked off his horse before he felt the pain of the dart itself. One moment he was looking for his next opponent, the next he was flying from the saddle and falling towards the ground. It was only after a moment of the world twirling around him that he felt the stabbing, burning pain in his shoulder that made him wince, and a moment after that the heavy blow from the ground that made him cry out.

With howls of triumph the Burned Men fell upon him, led by the man with the stone axe and the new scar across his face, who seemed somehow to still be able to find Harry in spite of the blood that was covering his visage. He raised his axe up high. Harry rolled aside, howling as he snapped the arrow in his shoulder, but dodging the axe all the same as it buried itself in the ground. He leapt to his feet - pain had not dulled his reflexes at least - to skewer the man upon his blade.

Two more Burned Men attacked at one, with a stone club for one and a sword doubtless pilfered from some unfortunate knight or man at arms for the other.

 _They will not take my sword. I will break it before they do._ Harry took the first blow upon his shield, though the strength behind it jarred his whole army, turning it aside to create an opening for his attack. The swordsman came at him from the other side. Harry would not call himself a great swordsman, but he had reflexes such as would make men gasp and it was his speed that saved him as he parried the strike from the unexpected quarter just in time. The two worked in tandem, keeping him on the defensive, too focussed upon staying alive to go on the attack against either one of them. Neither of them was swift enough to break his defences, but together they could keep him hopping.

Hedwig swooped out of the sky with a feral screech, her claws out as though she had spotted a fieldmouse running swiftly through the field. But it was the Burned Man with the sword that she was hunting as she clawed at his eyes and made him recoil, screaming.

Harry turned the clubman's stroke aside and opened his throat. Then he drove his blade into the swordsman's chest.

The second arrow took him in the abdomen.

Harry gasped for breath as his knees buckled beneat him, making him lean on his sword to stop from falling flat on his face on the ground. The pain. So much pain, no wonder everbody hated archers so much. Seven! Harry gasped for breath, trying to look for the next assault from the dwindling numbers of Burned Men. He could see the archer right in front of him. It was the woman, the only woman in the raiding party. She was slight, and not too tall, with copper hair and dark black paint around her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, then she turned away. They were all turning away, the surviving Burned Men running as Ronnet and his men rode into view, the clansmen fleeing into the mountains as swiftly as they had emerged.

"Ser Harry!" Ronnet cried out anxiously as he ran to Harry, kneeling before him. "Ser Harry, oh, Gods! I knew you're saving people would get you into trouble."

Despite the pain, Harry managed to smile. "Took you... long... enough." He collapsed onto his side.

The last thing he heard as the world darkened was people anxiously calling out his name.

 _Author's Note: He's not dead._

 _I decided that Harry should be a True Knight because it felt like a very Harry-ish thing to be; the fact that it nearly gets him killed also seems true to the character._

 _The mountain clans are going to play a substantial role in the story eventually, and since we don't get a lot of details around them I'll probably draw a lot of inspiration from the Grounders on the CW show The 100, because they kind of have the same look to them and The 100 is an awesome show all round._


	4. By Luna's Light

By Luna's Light

" _You…this isn't a criticism, Harry! But you do…sort of…I mean…don't you think you've got a bit of a saving-people thing?"_

 _Harry dreamed of a maid with bushy hair of soft brown and eyes to match. He dreamt of the tears in those brown eyes, he dreamt of the determination in her face, he dreamt of flying through the air with her on the back of a gryphon, while she rested her head upon his shoulder._

 _He dreamed of kissing her under a weirwood tree. He dreamed of watching her kiss another man with hair of fire. He dreamt of her death. He dreamt of her children, his own and sired by other men. He dreamed of her…and he dreamed of another too. A maid with silver hair but she was no Targaryen…he didn't know how he knew that but he knew it well enough. Her eyes were pale blue, and she watched him. She always watched him. No matter what he dreamt in every dream or memory there she was standing beside him. Watching._

"Wake up, Harry," the voice that called him out of the darkness was as soft as a whisper, yet like the breeze that blew through the shutters it was too insistent for him to ignore. "Wake up."

Harry winced as he opened his eyes, surprised at the sudden brightness that assailed him from the flap of the crude hide tent in which he found himself. A shadowcat pelt lay on top of him as a blanket, and he could see the rods of wood and bone that formed the tent-frame holding the deerhide canvas in its shape above him. A firepit, not burning now for obvious reasons but filled with the ashes of the night before, lay hard beside his head.

And the maid, the maid that he had dreamed of with silver hair, stood over him, looking down at him with her pale blue eyes, the slight trace of a smirk crossing her pale lips.

"Welcome back, Harry," she said. "It's been too long."

Harry groaned. "Where am I?"

"In my tent."

Harry half sat up, wincing a little at the pain in his shoulder. "Where is that, pray?"

The maid's smile broadened. "In the foothills of the mountains. Not too far from the road where you fell. I am sure that some lord claims these lands, but I know not his name."

"Past the Bloody Gate is all Arryn land until you come to the Riverlands and Lord Harroway's Town," Harry murmured.

"Then you can forgive me for trespassing on it, I suppose."

Harry snorted. "It would be ungrateful of me to do otherwise. I take it that you've saved my life?"

"I did," she said. "Again."

"Again? Have we met before?"

She laughed; it was a sound as clear as tinkling bells. "Have we met? Yes, Harry, you could say that. I suppose that you've forgotten. You always forget. I remember, but you always forget. Most things, anyway. How are your dreams?"

Harry's eyes widened. "You know about my dreams."

"I was there for all the things that you remember in your dreams. A hundred, hundred lives you've lived and I remember all of them."

Harry was silent for a while, hovering on the knife's edge of uncertainty between declaring this woman mad and asking for the answers to the impossible memories that plagued his sleeping hours. The desire to believe her, the desire to reach for answers that had never been within his grasp before was strong within his breast…but on the other hand…if she were mad, and ranting and had happened to have struck on something plausible…then who knew what she had planned for him, all alone in some secluded place in the foothills of the mountains.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Where are my men?"

The silver-haired maid stared at him for a moment. Then she began to laugh. "Oh. Oh. Oh, I see! You think that I, what? That I brought you here so that I could have my wicked way with you? You may attract the eyes of a few ladies in this world but your not worth that much trouble, Harry! Your men are all outside, and very worried about you. He's awake!"

There was the sound of a glad cry, and feet scrambling up a hillside, before Collyn poked his head in through the open flap of the tent. He had looked pleased before, but positively overjoyed once he saw Harry.

"Ser Harry! Thank the Seven you are awake. How are your wounds?"

"A bit stiff, but I barely feel them now," Harry said. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"Two days," the maid said. "I had to drug Ser Collyn here to get him to leave your side."

"I am no Ser, maiden," Collyn said at once. "I am a squire, only."

She smiled. "For now, squire Collyn."

"What did I miss, Collyn?" Harry asked. "What happened?"

"We chased off the clansmen, and just in time too," Collyn said, not without a touch of well-deserved reproach. "Ronnet and some of the men pursued them as they fled, killed most, but the girl who shot you escaped from them. We…we weren't sure what to do, we were too far from the Bloody Gate to take you there, and not knowing where else to find help…and then…"

"Then I arrived," the silver-haired maiden said. "I was just in time myself."

"She said she could help you," Collyn said. "And…well, we didn't have many other places to turn to. You were dying and you needed help."

"And you got it for me," Harry said. "For that you have my thanks. They all have my thanks, make sure that they know that."

"As you wish, Ser Harry; I mean, Hal, sorry," Collyn said.

Harry nodded. "And the girl? The one on the road, the one who was in trouble?"

"Safe and sound and still here," Collyn said. "I thought it was too dangerous to let her travel the High Road alone."

"And quite right too, especially after all the trouble I went too to save her life the first time," Harry muttered. "Did she want to go?"

Collyn shrugged. "I think she was worried that we didn't want the trouble. But I told her you'd never forgive me if I let her wander off into harm's way again."

Harry chuckled. "It might seem like a stupid thing I did; it might seem as though it wasn't worth it, but if I hadn't gone, and if she had died as a result of my caution, then I wouldn't be worthy to call myself a knight."

Collyn frowned. "But you are your father's only son of Arryn. If you were to die then-"

"Don't finish that sentence, Collyn," Harry said, allowing just a touch of sternness into his voice. "My life is not worth more than hers because my name is Arryn. The Maiden has charged me to protect all women, how can I do that if I hold my blood more precious than their lives?"

Collyn looked down at the ground. "They are hard oaths, Hal. Harder than I thought."

"They would be hard, if everyone followed them," Harry said. "And now, I must ask you to leave me for a moment, this maid and I…we have much to discuss."

Collyn glanced at her.

"Not like that," Harry snapped.

Collyn's face reddened. "No, Ser, if…if you say so, no." He ducked out of the tent, and Harry heard him descending the same slope that he had climbed, presumably to the camp with the other Arryn men and the maiden who was the cause of all these things.

The silver-haired maid chuckled. "A sweet boy, and faithful. You should take care of him."

"Who are you?" Harry demanded. "What is your name?"

"My name is Luna," she said casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Luna," Harry murmured. "And how do you know me?"

Luna turned away, and said nothing in reply.

"I said-"

"I heard you clearly," Luna replied. She walked across the tent, to where an old chest of rotting wood and rusted iron bands sat, half falling apart. She opened it – the lid creaked and groaned and Harry was surprised that it didn't break – and fumbled at the contents within for a moment, until she pulled out a necklace, a trifling thing, a silvery charm upon a dark string. She held it out to him. "Put this on?"

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Because I'm giving it to you, and it would be rude to say no," Luna said. "And besides, it will keep the nargles at bay."

Harry's frown deepened. "What are nargles?"

"If you put this on, you'll never have to find out."

Harry was still a little less than convinced, but he took the necklace anyway, and slipped it over his head, if only to get her talking again.

 _After all, the Seven Kingdoms has an entire order of knights to keep it safe from snarks and grumpkins, what is a piece of string and a charm to keep away 'nargles'?_

 _Wait a…_

"Is that a radish in your hair?"

"Yes," Luna said.

Harry waited for an explanation. None was forthcoming. "Why?"

"In case I get hungry," Luna said.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Are you alright?"

"People used to ask me that a lot, and I was never sure why," Luna replied. "Now…in this world, people don't care so much."

Harry was left with the strange and bizarre feeling that he ought to apologise for his behaviour. "I…can you help me? Can you explain the things that I dream of?"

"The wheel of time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again."

"Archmaester Rigney?" Harry murmured.

"You know of him?"

"Yes, I spent a year at the Citadel," Harry said. He had decided to go instead of touring the Free Cities, and his father had allowed it provided he returned after a year, or less. He had forged only three links of a chain: iron, copper and valyrian steel, and he had not, in the end, come much closer to understanding his dreams, but he did not feel that the time was altogether wasted. And there had become familiar with the theories of Rigney, who held that time was a wheel endlessly repeating. He had thought that it might explain his dreams, save that he dreamt of things that had never been seen in all the Seven Kingdoms. "I would ask how you heard of him, up here in the mountains."

"There is, or was, or will be a world where his books are available even to the smallfolk," Luna remarked. "Though he goes by a different name, there."

"I…I don't understand," Harry said.

"I didn't really think you would."

"But I thought you could help me."

"I could tell you what you want to know, Harry, but that isn't the same thing," Luna said.

"Tell me anyway!"

"You've lived a thousand lives, Harry, and I've lived each one with you," Luna replied.

Harry waited for more. No more came. "Is that it? There must be more than that."

"What do you want me to say, Harry?"

"I…I want you to tell me everything."

"You wouldn't believe everything," Luna said. "Not from me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"How?"

"Because I know you, better than you know yourself." Luna smiled fondly for a moment. "Do you want to know the truth?"

"Yes!" Harry said firmly. "I think."

Luna chuckled. "Are you worried about what you'll find out?"

Harry hesitated, before he made the admission. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I am."

Luna, to her credit, did not mock him. "If you really want to know, whenever you want to know, then come with me to Qarth."

"Qarth?"

"The Warlocks of the House of the Undying drink shade of the evening," Luna explained. "If you drink it, then you will finally understand. Probably."

"Qarth?" Harry repeated. "I can't just go to Qarth, I have to go to Riverrun and marry Lysa Tully at my father's command!"

"That's why I said 'when'," Luna said, putting the emphasis on the word as though he had missed it because she hadn't spoken loudly enough. "Not now, maybe not ever, but when. I'll be waiting for you, when you're ready. And even if you're not…we'll see each other again. We're bound together, you and I."

Harry shook his head. "Qarth, Archmaester Rigney, you're an unusual woods witch aren't you? How have you survived the mountain clans for so long?"

"I heal them sometimes, as I have healed you, and they leave me alone. Their fights are not mine, but my fight is not with them either. In their quarrel with the Valemen I take no side."

"Everyone takes sides in war, even if they don't want to," Harry said.

Luna looked him in the eye. "My side is you, Harry."

Harry stood up, and walked over to her. He wasn't wearing a shirt, but that didn't seem to distract her like it might have some people. "Can't you at least tell me how it is that you can say things like that and I…I find that I believe you?"

Luna put one hand upon his chest. "Because, although we were not lovers, our hearts were bound in ways that cannot be sundered by the turning of the wheel."

And again, Harry found that for no reason that he could explain, he believed her.

* * *

Now that he was feeling better and more recovered, Harry moved out of Luna's deer-hide tent and down the hillock to where Collyn and the rest of his men made camp. They were all glad to see him, or pretended to be for the sake of their positions with House Arryn, and he praised them all on doing what they could to avenge him on the wildlings. They ate, they drank a little, he listened to their familiar stories…and then that night, when they were all aslumber, he found that he could not sleep. He sat by the still-burning fire, staring into the flickering yellow and red flames as though like some shadowbinder of Asshai he could divine the past and future from it, obtain from fire the answers that Luna would not provide.

Of course, no answers came. But still, Harry did not sleep. Part of him did not want to and, even if another part of him had…he wasn't sure that he would be able to do so.

He wasn't the only one. The maiden with the bushy hair, the one who seemed so similar to the brown-eyed maid that he had dreamed of, the one that he dreamed both of taking for himself and of watching her be claimed by other men, she sat across the flickering flames from him. She, too, was looking at the flames, though she glanced upwards when she noticed that Harry was looking at her now.

She was a pretty thing, slight and slender with a small face hidden within her tangled mass of hair. She looked uncertain, like a horse that was liable to bolt if improperly handled.

Harry remembered the dead man on the road. _She's suffered much._

"You cannot sleep, my lord?" she asked quietly, a trifle nervously.

"My father is the lord," Harry replied. "I am only Ser Harry Arryn. And you are, my lady?"

"No lady, Ser, my name is Hermione."

"Hermione," Harry spoke the name experimentally, rolling his tongue over and under and around each separate syllable. It was an unusual name, but it had a pleasing sound…and one not unfamiliar to him although…although he could not remember where he had heard it before. "What, if I may ask, were you doing on the High Road all by yourself?"

"I wasn't by myself," she sniffed. "I was with my father."

"May the Father judge him justly," Harry murmured. "I am sorry, I did not mean to-"

"It's alright, Ser," Hermione replied, although she looked as though she might break out in tears at any moment. "I know you meant no offence. We…were on our way home, to Gulltown."

"Forgive me, but you don't sound like a Gulltown native," Harry said. "If I had to guess, I would place your accent as Oldtown."

Hermione nodded. "I've lived there a while. Most of my life, but…after my mother died…papa had relatives in Gulltown, he wanted to…I told him we should have taken a ship but he just had so many possessions that he couldn't bear to leave behind and…" She wiped away the tears from her cheeks. "Forgive me, Ser, I…I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Harry said softly. "Even the gods must weep, or so I feel. So why should we mortals be begrudged our tears?"

 _He was a fool, your father,_ he thought. _The High Road is no place for an old man and a maid, alone and unarmed, no matter the season._ Right now the Vale was at peace, and his lord father stretched forth some effort to keep the road clear, sending the knights of the vale ranging forth to patrol the highway against raiders, but all that did was make it safe for Harry's company of twenty well-armed men to travel unmolested. It did not make it safe for a party of two, neither of whom were able to fight nor even looked as if they might be.

One might as well throw corn before a raven and be surprised when he ate it.

Of course, he could hardly say that to her, distraught as she was, but that didn't make it any the less true.

He sat awkwardly on the other side of the fire, feeling helpless as he watched her sob. He…he didn't really know what to do in situations like this. He liked women, but he wouldn't claim any great understanding of them, especially when they were crying. It left him rather…useless. There just didn't seem to be anything he could do, but of course doing nothing only made the feeling of complete uselessness even worse.

He turned his thoughts to what would become of her afterwards, and a scowl settled softly on his features. A true knight, of course, would offer to escort her safely to Gulltown…but if he did that, then he would be late – very late – to Riverrun, and by the time he arrived Jaime Lannister might well have claimed the prize already. And his father was counting on him to preserve the future of their house.

And yet to let her continue on – try to continue on, because if the Burned Men didn't do for her then the Stone Crows would, or the Moon Brothers or the Painted Dogs. Alone, there was no way she would reach Gulltown alive.

His duty as a knight was to see her safe to Gulltown, his duty as a son and as an Arryn was to go to Riverrun. So many duties were laid upon the shoulders of a man like him.

So many privileges were handed to him from the moment he was born, so it probably all evened out in the grand scale of things. Not that that was of much help to Hermione.

Hermione wiped at her face. "Thank you, Ser. You…you are not an ordinary knight."

"Have you known many?" Harry asked sardonically.

"No," Hermione replied, and she almost chuckled. "Of course not. But in Oldtown…I have heard a few lordlings and noble scions. They were none of them like you."

"Acolytes of the Citadel?"

"Yes, the Citadel," Hermione said. "So many books, and I wasn't allowed to read any of them."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "If I may say, you are not like most girls I've met."

"Should I be flattered or insulted?"

"How should I feel about my difference?"

"Flattered," Hermione said. "Only flattered."

Harry smiled. "And there you have your own answer." He looked into the flames and frowned. "I wish that I could escort you straight to Gulltown and deliver you into the protection of your father's relatives, but…I regret that I cannot. I have urgent business in the Riverlands, and if I were to even give you enough men to see you safe to Gulltown I would put my journey at risk. However, if you will be patient with me, I may have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Come with me to Lord Harroway's Town, or perhaps Saltpans," Harry said. "I know it is back the way that you have come, but we can travel together that far, and once there I will hire reliable men to take you back to Gulltown down the High Road."

Hermione looked at him. The flickering flames beneath her face lent her eyes a…beguiling appearance. "And if there are no reliable men to be found?"

"Then you can wait for me, and when I come back then I will escort you to your new home myself. I give you my word."

"Your word, to a common girl without so much as a name?" Hermione asked. "Yes, Ser, you are indeed different."

"Do you agree?" Harry asked. "Is my plan acceptable to you."

Hermione said nothing for a moment. She just stared at him over the flames. "Yes. Yes, Ser, it is. I will go with you. So far, and perhaps further still."

* * *

"I am sorry that it seems you will be detained here a little while," Harry murmured. "I apologise, but I do not think anything else would be safe."

With the benefit of hindsight, it had been rather naive of him to think that Hermione wouldn't end up stuck in an inn in Lord Harroway's Town for at least a while as he went off to Riverrun. He had spoken of finding reliable men in the Riverlands to escort her safely to her father's kin in Gulltown, but since no riverlord would lend his household to such a purpose that meant mercenaries and - bluntly, and with a few exceptions - if such men were reliable they wouldn't be mercenaries in the first place. In the whole of Lord Harroway's Town he had found a scruffy-looking hedge knight, who looked as though he had not been young since Aegon the Unlikely and not sober since Jahaerys, a group of six sellswords calling themselves the Company of the Oak as they attempted to entice strong young men of the town into their band, and a few other blades for hire none of whom seemed to possess too much in the way of honour or courage. None of them seemed likely to put their own lives at risk against the mountain clans. He wasn't even sure that he would trust any of them not to kill Hermione themselves, or worse, once out of the sight of any witnesses.

Again, he should have foreseen all of this; if they had been men of better quality they would have found service with some lord, a roof above their heads and a place at his table, instead of being force to tramp up and down the Seven Kingdoms living from stag to stag. They were little more than glorified brigands, and just as apt to turn to law-breaking in lean times.

"I will be content here, Ser Harry, for a while at least," Hermione said. She smiled as she looked around the modest room. Harry had given the innkeep a purse of golden dragons and told him to keep a tab once the purse ran out, but he didn't want to encourage the gold to run out too quickly by demanding the largest room in the Inn of the Just Man; as a consequence there was not a great deal of space between the bed and the walls, just enough for a small chair to be lodged awkwardly beside the door.

"I'm sorry it's a little cosy," Harry said.

Hermione chuckled. "Reading doesn't take up a lot of room. Ser Harry-"

"Most call me Hal," Harry said.

"Really? And you let them?"

Harry frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

Hermione shrugged. "No reason, I just...I think that Harry sounds better, that's all."

"And many others would not agree with you," Harry said. "But you were saying?"

"Yes, are you sure it's alright, leaving a man here with me? You don't need him?"

Harry shook his head. "The Riverlands' reputation for anarchy aside, there is little enough to fear in these lands in a time of peace. For knights and armed men, anyway. One man won't make much difference to me now, but I feel better knowing that Ronnet is here to protect-"

"My virtue?" Hermione asked mischievously.

Harry snorted. "Not quite what I was going to say." He stared at her for a moment. She was...it was strange, but he found that he was drawn to her in spite of himself, or better and more accurate to say in spite of her. Her face, her eyes, her hair, the more that he looked at them the more attractive they seemed. Her body was nothing to sing of and yet...there was a part of him that wanted to sing of her, to embrace her, to kiss her, to hurl her onto that bed and love her until dawn and his departure came.

Hermione smiled. "Why, Ser, I wonder if the man whom from my virtue needs protecting is already in this room."

Harry swallowed. "I...I do not deny that I smell honey in your hair," he confessed. "But...but you are safe with me, I guarantee it."

"And what if I wish to have the honey licked from my hair?" she asked. "After all, you are even a knight."

"I am," Harry murmured. "And for that reason...I should go."

"Why?" she asked. "You are not wed yet."

"No," Harry agreed. "But you and I will never wed."

"I know that, I'm not a fool."

"And yet..." Harry took one step towards her. It felt much easier than it would have been to turn away.

"Indeed," she said. "And yet."

He took another step towards her. "Thank you, my lady."

"I am no lady."

"Tonight," he said. "You are a lady, and mine."

* * *

 _Author's Note: I went back and forth for a while on whether Harry and Hermione would sleep together or not before deciding that they would. After all, he isn't married yet so he isn't doing anything wrong, and she's cute._

 _One of the thing I was going to bring up in this chapter, but couldn't find a good way to express, is that Harry has not just lived his canon life but also a load of fanfics as well; that's why he remembers kissing Hermione. However I decided against referencing other people's works in a way that would have made it more obvious._

 _Next chapter Harry will reach Riverrun._


	5. Lion Cub

The Lion Cub

By comparison with his own father, most of the lords of Westeros looked young to Harry's eyes, and Lord Hoster Tully was no exception. He judged the lord of Riverrun to be about the age that any son of Jon Arryn's would have been had Lord Jon had a child by his first wife, instead of labouring under the disdain of the gods for so long, and only bringing a son into the world at the time of Lady Rowena's death. That was not to say that he was young, but he had not Lord Jon's years to be sure. He sat in the high seat of the Tully's, set upon the dais in the great hall of Riverrun, with red hair and a fierce red beard upon which grey hairs had only lately begun to encroach, a stout fellow but strong seeming for all of it. If Lord Hoster had not won the great distinction that his younger brother had earned in the War of the Ninepenny Kings then at the very least he had not disgraced himself against the Blackfyres either, and won enough renown to keep the honour of House Tully safe for another generation.

In the end, that was all that any but the most distinguished could hope to do.

"Welcome, Ser Harry," declared Lord Hoster, in a genial tone. "Welcome, indeed. I trust your journey here was not too arduous?"

The remark was a courtesy, not an invitation to tell all about his problems with mountain clans and woods witches and the like, and so Harry smiled and said, "Indeed not, my lord, the road was quiet and the journey safe and pleasant; nevertheless, I am glad to have reached the end of the road for now, I look forward to sampling the far-famed hospitality of Riverrun."

Lord Hoster chuckled. "You may begin sampling now, Ser, if you wish. Will you take bread and salt?"

At his word, as though it were a command spoken in a tongue that Harry knew not of, a servant started forward with a small metal platter, upon which were placed a few pieces of bread crust, and a thin layer of salt scattered about underneath like the pine needles that cover the ground in a thick forest.

Harry said, "I'm sure that I've nothing to fear from you, my lord, within your hall; nor any need for the protection of old customs. But, lest you should fear that I will prove a poor guest, I will take both and thank my lord for offering the same." He took one of the pieces of crust, rubbed it in the salt for a moment, and popped it into his mouth. It tasted dry, and the salt didn't really help, but then it wasn't supposed to taste particularly good. He chewed quickly, and swallowed even more swiftly than that.

Lord Hoster nodded approvingly. "Well spoken, Ser. Your Lord father told me that you were possessed of courteous speech, and now I have the proof of it. Be welcome, I say again, and meet my children." He rose from his seat, and descended the steps of the dais to clap his hand upon the shoulder of a young boy, a child still, with a mop of unruly red hair upon his head. "This is Edmure, my only son and heir."

Young Edmure's eyes were wide. "Be welcome, Ser."

"I shall, Lord Edmure, thank you," Harry replied.

"This is my elder daughter, Catelyn," Lord Hoster continued, as he gestured to the taller and clearly older of the two girls who stood beside the brother younger than either of them.

 _Well someone's a lucky boy, isn't he? Someone named Brandon Stark, in point of fact._ There was no getting around it. Catelyn Tully was beautiful. Her eyes alone were fit to sing of, as blue as the waters of the Trident that watered the broad lands of the Tullys and hedged around Riverrun in moat defensive. Her skin was mild as mothers' milk, her auburn hair looked as fine as the finest silks brought from Yi Ti. Her cheekbones were high, and gave her face an appearance that was proud, he might even have said regal…but there was a kindness there as well, a warmth that started in those blue eyes and suffused outwards to fill her whole face.

 _Fortunate Brandon Stark indeed._

She curtsied. "Welcome, Ser Harry."

"My lady," Harry said, with a bow of the head. "If I have it right, my lady, you are betrothed to Brandon Stark of Winterfell?"

Catelyn smiled, an act which only enhanced her beauty further. "I have the honour, Ser. Do you know Lord Brandon?"

"Alas, I have not had the privilege," Harry replied. "But I am well acquainted with his brother Eddard, who is my father's ward."

"The betrothal is not yet formalised, as well Cat knows," Lord Hoster declared. "But Brandon Stark shall soon be joining us here at Riverrun to complete the formalities, so you may yet have the pleasure of meeting him, Ser Harry. In the meantime, let me present my younger daughter Lysa, the delight of my eye and the pride of my house."

 _Yes, I remember which one is available, my lord, thank you,_ Harry thought. The truth was that no amount of soft-soaping could disguise the fact that Lysa Tully was not her sister's equal in looks. That was not to call her hideous by any means, for she was a pretty girl without doubt: slender and willowy, delicate in her build and proportions like a porcelain figurine, with a fair complexion and a dimpled chin that Harry guessed would become more pronounced if she smiled. She had the Tully red hair and blue eyes, though neither so red nor so blue as in her elder sister. Though pretty, she had the misfortune to be outshone.

The fact that she was acting like she was terrified of him, turning her face to the ground, embracing her arms, and…was she trembling? Whether she was or not, her conduct wasn't enhancing her charms to say the least.

Still, she was far from an ogre and she was the girl whom Harry's father had chosen to be his bride; Harry had been sent here with a duty to carry out, and since it was neither actively unpleasant nor worse dishonourable, he had better get to it hadn't he? He bowed from the waist, and would have taken her hand had not her posture indicated that such a move from him would be unwelcome.

"Lady Lysa, though the journey from the Vale was long, the sight of you has made my travels more than worthwhile."

Lysa did not respond. She didn't even look up at him.

 _I suppose I was overdoing it a little bit._

All the same, the result was a silence settling in the great hall that threatened to become somewhat awkward.

"Lysa," Catelyn hissed.

Lysa might have said something, or she might have not, because she seemed to try to speak but the end result was so quiet that Harry couldn't make out if she had said anything or not.

Nevertheless, he had no desire to embarrass the poor girl, and so he bowed his head once again and said, "I thank you, my lady, you are too generous to such as I."

Lord Hoster seemed grateful for the attempt, for he said, "Indeed, my Lysa is a veritable font of kindness. Now, here is my ward, young Petyr Baelish, a valeman like yourself, Ser Harry."

"Ser," said Petyr, in an even tone that concealed everything in much the same way as a ridge conceals the army hidden on the other side of it. His green-grey eyes were as opaque as mist, and in all his face there was very little to give anything away. He was short, barely any taller than Edmure Tully though he must have been a few years older than the Tully heir, and nor was his lack of height offset by any great broadness in the shoulders. He looked weak, physically at least, if not to the point of being unhealthy.

"Lord Petyr," Harry said courteously. "If you are from the Vale, then you must be the son of Lord Lyonel Baelish of the Fingers, yes?"

"Indeed, Ser Harry," Petyr replied, still without any evident feeling his voice. "Though I am surprised that the son of Jon Arryn has even heard of the lord of the smallest of the Fingers."

"All have heard of the deeds of Lord Lyonel on the Stepstones, during the war," Harry replied. "Your father is a valiant man and a true bannerman to House Arryn."

"My father is a poor man, Ser, and a small bannerman to House Arryn," Petyr corrected him. "But I thank you for your lordly courtesy."

Now there was some emotion in his voice, and the emotion was resentment. As ugly as that was, Harry found that he could hardly blame the lad. Thanks to the valour of his father, he had been raised in the grandeur of Riverrun, home to the Lords Paramount of the Riverlands. And yet when he came of age he would leave these splendid halls and return to the windswept tower upon the coast that was his father's patrimony and that would be all of his inheritance when said father died. Nor, small and frail and weak-looking as he seemed, could he have many dreams of advancing himself by martial prowess; Petyr Baelish would win no glory in the field or in the tourney lists, and if he was clever he would realise that before he got himself killed trying.

Lord Hoster stepped in to save Harry from the need to reply. "And now, Ser Harry, since I am sure that you are weary from your journey, rest awhile. My servants will show you to your chamber, where you may change your clothes before the feast tonight. And there you shall meet my other guest, young Jaime Lannister, the son of Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock."

 _Ah, yes, my rival._ "I would be honoured to make the acquaintance of the heir to Casterly Rock," Harry said. "Though at present it is the thought of the feast that pleases me more. Food eaten on the road grows somewhat stale for the stomach."

Lord Hoster chuckled. "If ever you go to war, Ser Harry, as your lord father and myself and bold Lord Rickard went to war against dread Maelys and the Ninepenny Kings, then you will soon known what it is for the taste of food to grow stale in the mouth and stomach. Food for the road is a positive delight compared to the food that is eaten on campaign."

"If the Seven are good, my lord, I will have to take your word for it."

* * *

Collyn laid Harry's tunic out upon the bed, it was Arryn blue with fine white cuffs. "So, Ser Hal, what do you think about your future wife?"

Harry finished off drying his hair. "I think…I don't know what to think, Collyn, she hasn't said a single word to me so far."

"My mother hadn't said a single word to my father before they were married," Collyn said. He paused for a moment. "He often says he wished she hadn't said a word to him after they were married either."

Harry snorted. "Yes, well, no disrespect to your father, Collyn, but I'd like to know what kind of a trap it is before I walk into it."

"It might not be a trap, Ser Hal," Collyn remarked. "After all, she's fair enough to look on. Not so much as the elder, but still…"

"But still, Lady Catelyn is to wed another man."

"It isn't official yet, sir, if you're that keen."

Harry raised his eyebrows, and looked at Collyn even as he took his tunic off the bed and began to pull it on. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"I don't know what you think that I'm suggesting, Ser," said Collyn, with a face that looked far too guileless to actually be guileless.

"Somehow I don't think my father would appreciate my pissing off the Stark family just so I could wed the more attractive Tully girl," Harry said. "Not to mention what I'd say to Ned when I got home. And then…"

"And then, Ser Harry?"

"It would be rather a despicable way to treat Lysa, don't you think?" Harry asked. "If she knows anything of this business, which I think she must."

"She might not."

"Perhaps, but in any case…no, Collyn, even a bastard would shrink from that kind of behaviour."

"If you say so, Ser," Collyn said. "In any case, Lady Lysa's fair enough I suppose. If she were a right old trout it would be different."

Harry's tone grew suddenly cold, as though a summer snow had descended upon the land. He paused in doing up his tunic. "Collyn."

Collyn frowned. "Yes, Ser."

"Honourable men don't speak of ladies that way," Harry said. "It is coarse and unchivalrous."

Collyn bowed his head. "Sorry, Ser. I'll remember in future."

"I'm sure you will," Harry said as his voice softened. "As for the thrust of your point: if Lysa has a nature as sweet as her face I daresay we could be happy together."

"You have always like redheads."

"Oh, have I now?"

Collyn grinned. "Well…so they say, anyway."

"Who's they?"

"Lord Robert Baratheon, mainly, Ser Hal."

"Does he now?" Harry muttered. "I wouldn't take everything that Robert says too seriously. Especially if he wasn't entirely sober when he said it." The truth was, of course, that he did like redheads. He liked redheads very much. Something about the sight of some rich red hair, splayed out across a pillow or framing a pretty face it stirred up such feelings in him – and not only those kind of feelings, whatever Robert might say when he was in his cups! – like…he couldn't explain it, although perhaps Luna could. Or perhaps she would simply act smug and refuse to explain a thing. He remembered red hair, so that was almost certainly part of it. He didn't remember much beyond that, but he remembered red hair. Red hair and the beauty who possessed it. The affection for it was something that he had brought with him from…wherever, apparently.

And Lysa Tully did indeed have red hair. Not so red nor silky smooth as her sister but…oh, for the love of the Seven could he not turn his thoughts from Lady Catelyn for one moment? It was Lysa he was here to court. Lysa. Lysa, he must think only of Lysa.

And how fortunate Brandon Stark was.

"Will you wear your sword to dinner, Ser?" Collyn asked.

"No, I think Lord Hoster might take that as an insult," Harry said. "I'm sorry you can't join me on the high table."

"I didn't expect to, Ser, being only a squire and all."

"Yes, but Jaime Lannister will be on the high table for sure and he is only a squire," Harry said, with an undercurrent of grumbling in his tone.

Collyn laughed briefly. "We may both be squires, but me and Jaime Lannister aren't the same. His father is the Lord of Casterly Rock, while mine is one of three lords in Gulltown for all my name is Arryn."

Harry frowned, and made a kind of noise with his throat. Collyn's words made him think of young Baelish, and the way that he had spoken of his father. "Does it ever bother you?"

"What, Ser?"

"The…" Harry paused for a moment. "Do you ever resent the fact that…do you ever think of the differences in our estates and dislike the fact that…"

"Are you asking me if I'm jealous of you, Ser?"

Harry folded his arms. "I suppose I am, yes."

There was something infectious about Collyn's boyish smile. "Seven save me, Hal, I could never be jealous of you. I…I want to be you. To be a knight like you are, a true knight."

"Do you ever want the wealth and power that I am heir to?"

"No!" cried Collyn. "No, Ser, and may the warrior strike me down if I don't speak the truth. What has some villain said to make you doubt me?"

"Nothing," Harry said quickly. "Nothing at all. This isn't really about you, Collyn, I'm sorry. I just…I met young Petyr Baelish today, Lord Lyonel's son…he seems envious."

"Of you?"

"Of the Tullys," Harry replied. "Or perhaps he doesn't envy them, he just resents his father for not being their equal. I wondered if…never mind."

* * *

At Lord Hoster's feast that night was where Harry first made the acquaintance of Jaime Lannister.

He turned out to be such an arrogant, entitled, blond-haired little shit that Harry was driven to wonder if they'd met somewhere before. From the moment they met, Harry began to take a dislike to the squire, and the fact that Jaime Lannister seemed to be bore with him even before they had finished being introduced had not done anything to help with that impression.

And then there was the way he treated Lysa Tully.

Lord Hoster, with a lack of subtlety that was the prerogative of a great lord in his own castle, had seated young Jaime Lannister next to his younger daughter, and Harry opposite her across the table(fortunately there were only two them or poor Lysa would have been hemmed in by suitors; as it was Lady Catelyn sat beside her on her left to give her flank an anchor); but you would have thought the daughter of Lord Hoster was a scullery maid rudely placed at table by the way Jaime reacted to her: he turned away completely, presenting his back and shoulder to her (though that had the advantage for him of ensuring that he could not see Lady Catelyn glaring in his direction with a look as sharp as the swords of the Tully knights) and focussed all attention upon Ser Brynden Tully.

Harry was not blind as to why he might do this. Ser Brynden was a valiant and renowned knight; who had won great honours in the war upon the Stepstones. It was indeed a great honour to be in the presence of one who had won such deathless glory, as Harry had been sure to make mention when he sat down to dinner, but if Jaime Lannister had considered what it would be like to be so utterly shunted aside in favour of your uncle he gave no sign of it.

Harry did wonder, briefly, if his righteous indignation was rooted in hypocrisy. He could remember - or thought he could remember or whatever this qas happening in his brain - behaving the exact same way. He remembered an exotic maid, brown like one of the Naathi or Saarnosi, sitting beside him in miserable neglect, he remembered tears and anguish and...and Hermione came into it somehow, but he couldn't quite recall how.

It was those memories of his earlier (if that was in any sense the right word) boorishness that drove him and had driven him towards a courtly gallantry around the fairer sex, as though he could by such good conduct expunge the shame of his past thoughtlessness. And so he attempted to fill the breach that Jaime Lannister had left unmasked and to engage Lysa as the heir to Casterly Rock was singularly failing to.

He had to admit that it wasn't working very well. Lysa's head was bowed, her blue eyes dim and shadowed, her mouth barely opening even to eat. She looked so miserable, so forlorn and forsaken like a lamb that was wandered away from the flock and so grown hopelessly lost in the thicket somewhere that Harry's heart was pierced as by a dartfrom a crossbow. And yet he could not help her nor, judging by her reticence, did she desire his help. Most of the responses Harry received came from Lady Catelyn, while it was only young Petyr Baelish could animate Lysa from his place at the far end of the table, and then only for a moment or two.

As a result Harry was ashamed to say that he was beginning to slide directly into talking to Catelyn when his ears pricked up at something Jaime Lannister said.

"I would that Barristan the Bold had not ended the Blackfyre line, that they might rise again and I might win great glory as you have done."

"You wish for a war?" Harry asked.

Jaime Lannister twisted round to regard Harry with a disdain born of tedium. "What true knight, what true man, does not, Ser Harry? Where else may undying renown be won?"

"In the tourney lists," Harry suggested, in a soft, quiet voice.

Jaime snorted. "A tourney is but a preparation for war, surely?"

"It certainly helps," Harry allowed. "Though personally I find the contest a worthy end in itself. None die in the lists, or very few...and them few accidental."

Jaime smirked. "So you fear death then, Ser Harry?"

"I think every man fears death who has something to live for," Harry said. "What husband would not rather return to his wife, what father would not rather return to his son and daughters, what son would not rather return to his father then leave his bones feeding the soil of the Stepstones or the Sisters? That those husbands, sons and fathers face death despite all they have to live for is a greater glory than any their deeds will win in the eyes of other men."

Jaime regarded him coolly. "And in what war, Ser Harry, did you fight to learn these insights?"

"The Vale is always at war," Harry replied with frigid courtesy.

Jaime snorted. "Skirmishes with savages."

"A man killed by a wildling's wood axe is just as dead as killed by the lance of a Blackfyre knight," Harry replied.

Jaime snorted. "I'm not afraid of death."

"Then either you have nothing to ve for," Harry said. "Or you are not a man. Not yet at least."

It was at that point that good Lord Hoster intervened to turn the conversation onto something less likely to end in a duel, and dinner resumed its prior uncomfortable course.

The hour was late when the fea t was ended and Harry rose from the table to retire to his room and his waiting bed. He had gone royghly halfway there or so, by his best reckoning, when he heard brisk footsteps coming up the corridor towards him.

"Ser Harry! A moment, if I may."

Harry's brow furrowed, if only gently, as he turned to see Jaime Lannister advancing briskly towards him. The heir to Casterly Rock was wearing a crimson tunic, with his houses's symbol of the lion rampant emblazoned on his right breast in a gold that was almost as bright as his golden hair.  
"Lannister," Harry murmured, in a tone that conveyed very little.

Jaime grinned like a cat. "I hope I didn't offend you in there, Ser. Your words surprised me, that's all."

"Is all the West so eager for the glory of war?" Harry asked. "And here I thought the Reach was meant to the heart of chivalry."

Jaime chuckled. "At least the West knows how to finish the wars that it begins. You've been fighting those savages for how many thousands of years?"

Harry didn't answer that. "By finish, I suppose you mean-"

"And who are you, the proud lord said, that I should bow so low," Jaime replied, with a faint note of lyricism in his voice.

"That would make an end to it," Harry agreed. "Scarcely honourable, though."

Jaime smirked. "Honour is reserved for those who have it in turn, surely? Or else peasants would compete in the jousting. Speaking of which, I hear you're rather good, Ser."

"I've won my share of tourneys," Harry said. The truth was that he loved it, the feel of the horse beneath him, the weight of the lance, the sounds of the crowd all around him, it was incredible. But he wasn't about to confess all that to Jaime Lannister.

"I'm told I've a talent fotr it myself," Jaime said. "Perhaps I'll see you in the lists, when I'm a man."

Harry smiled. "I meant as little offence as you."

"Oh, of course," Jaime said lightly. He was silent for a moment. "So, you are my competition?"

"I know not what you mean," Harry said cautiously.

"That would be very disappointing, if true," Jaime said. "Lord Sumner Crakehall sent me to deliver a message that could not be trusted to a raven. What kind of message is that? Lord Hoster has kept me here a week considering his reply, and every meal he sits me next to shy little Lysa."

"And every meal you ignore her in favour of Ser Brynden?"

Jaime shrugged. "He is more interesting, you must admit. And besides, your own gallant effort didn't meet with much in the way of success."

"No," Harry said. "But at at least I made an effort."

Jaime laughed. "Good for you, Ser Harry, if that's what you want. Personally I can't imagine being married to that young cow in the-"

His words came to a halt as Harry's fist slammed into his jaw and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Jaime winced as he felt at his jaw with one hand. "What the seven hells?

"When it comes to a lady, you may think as you will," Harry said. "But some tjoughts it's just plain bad manners to say out loud."

Jaime was still holding his jaw as he rose to his feet. "You're-"

"A true knight," Harry said. "Or I try to be."

"A true knight," Jaime said mockingly. "Not quite the words I was looking for, but I suppose I should withdraw while I still have teeth. Goodnight, Ser Harry."

"A pleasant goodnight," Harry said, as Jaime brushed past him. Since he had no desire to walk beside the squire, Harry allowed him to get ahead and out of sight before he began to follow.

As he began to walk, he thought he heard footsteps running away behind him.

* * *

Catelyn Tully ran the comb throug Lysa's red hair. Not so bright as hers, perhaps, but red and bright and lovely all the same. And soft, too, soft against her long, lean fingers. That was one of the reasons she had sent the maid away, and was conbing Lysa's hair herself before bed.

The other reason was that she was concerned for her sister.

"You've been very quiet today," she said softly, as she ran the comb through Lysa's hair. "Is something wrong?"

Lysa didn't reply. She satin front of the fine Tyroshi mirror in a sullen silence as it reflected back at her her unhappy countenance.

Cat sighed. "You can tell me, Lysa; you can tell me anything. What's wrong? I know there's something."

Lysa said nothing.

Cat draped one arm around her sister's shoulders, and rested her head on top of Lysa's own. She smiled into the mirror to soften her words. "You were nearly rude to Father's guest today; he's upset with you about it. Not much, but...why, Lysa, why did you act that way?"

"I didn't ask him to come here," Lysa said, as a petulant pout marred her pretty features. "I don't...I don't want to marry them! I don't...I'm scared, Cat!"

Cat sat down on the stool, with her back to the mirror so that she could look at Lysa's face not her reflection. "What are you talking about?"

"You know why they're here, both of them," Lysa said. "Father wants to marry me to one of them."

Cat didn't deny it. What would have been the point? It wasn't as if it wasn't obvious to the whole of Riverrun. Nor, indeed, was there anything wrong or unusual about it. "You don't like them?"

Lysa shook her head.

Cat reached out, and took Lysa's hand in her own, enfolding it gently in her grasp. "Why not?"

"Because Jaime Lannister's just a little boy!" Lysa declared in a tone of disgust. "Besides, he's rude. I don't like him."

Cat didn't reall like him either, and so she didn't offer any further comment. "What about Ser Harry Arryn? He is no boy, but a man grown." [I]And comely, too,[/I] she thought, but did not say aloud. She was a maid betrothed, after all, and to a young lord proud and fierce botn by repute what was. She would not set the falcon 'gainst the wolf by foolish expression of idle thoughts.

"He...I don't know," Lysa said.

"He was courteous,in spite of all you did or did not do," Cat pounted out.

"He's not what I want," Lysa cried. "He's not...he's not who I want."

Cat frowned. "Who? Lysa, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Lysa said quickly. "There's...nothing, Cat, I meant nothing by it. I just don't want to marry Harry Arryn, that's all."

Their lord father wouldn't give her the choice of he decided that the match was in House Tully's interest, but those were not the words to comfort an anxious Lysa, and so Cat kept her hands entwined with those of her litle sister and favoured her with an almost maternal smile. "When I first found out that I was to marry Brandon Stark I felt so nervous...I was going to be given to this northman. I was terrified, what if he was as savage as the singers say Starks are."

"I didn't realise," Lysa murmured.

"No," Cat said. "Because Father had given his word, and so it was my duy to obey."

"Family, Duty, Honour," muttered Lysa, in sullen tones.

"Family, Duty, Honour," Cat repeated. "I wasn't happy about it and now...now when I think of Brandon I...I'm looking forward to being his wife." Almost, at least. Certainly there was a lot to look forward to. Brandon Stark was a fine, handsome man, strong and bold, a master of the horse and the sword. Who would not want such a husband, being besides heir to an ancient lordly seat and mastery of the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. But all those things...they would not make him kind. And so...some doubts persisted, doubts that she would never raise with anyone, least of all Lysa.

If it was her honour to be happy in her marriage, then she would.

If it was her duty to suffer instead, then she would do that.

"I didn't...Cat," Lysa whispered. "I was so jealous of you, I...I wanted what you had. What I thought you had."

"Do not dismiss Ser Harry yet," Cat said. "You may yet have all that I have, and more."

Lysa grinned. "But not Jaime Lannister?"

"No," Cat replied. "Definitely not Jaime Lannister."


	6. Two Sisters

Two Sisters

Harry was awoken by nightmares - the green light, the high-pitched laughter, a broken body at the foot of a high tower - and found that he had neither the ability nor, in truth, the will to get back to sleep again. The light was creeping into his chamber through the chinks in the casement, and his head felt clouded by that throbbing fog which accompanies being woken too soon. He had no desire to simply close his eyes and roll over and dwell upon his nightmares while sleep's embrace failed to return.

 _If you really want to know, whenever you want to know, then come with me to Qarth._

So Luna had spoken. In Qarth, so she said, in the House of the Undying were the answers that he was looking for. But how could he ever justify that to his father? _I know that I didn't want to go touring the Free Cities before, but now I want to go to Qarth so that I can take shade of the evening and lose myself in a stupour. Yes, he'll be understanding if I tell him that for sure._ But he wanted to know. He didn't want to spend his whole life tormented by dreams he couldn't comprehend. He wanted to know the truth.

Right now, he didn't want to lie in this bed any longer.

He got up, and pulled on a tunic - plain, but with the Arryn falcon stitched onto his breast - and a pair of britches, plus his boots. In the chamber without, Collyn was still asleep and snoring peacefully, so Harry crept quietly past him and out into the corridors of Riverrun. The castle was quiet. A few servants were abroad, preparing for the moment when their lord would wake, and a few guards patrolled the corridor, but it was nothing compared to the bustle that would engulf the castle when the sun rose higher and the Tully seat woke.

Those few who were about bowed their necks to him as he passed. Harry gave them a brief acknowledgement but did not pause. He let his feet carry him on, step by step, his boots squeaking ever so slightly upon the stone floor. He wasn't sure where he was going, he didn't really know this place, but he let his feet lead the way as though some otherworldly force were drawing them on, step by step by step, until they brought him to the sept.

 _An otherworldly force indeed,_ Harry thought wryly as he looked about him. Already, although there was no sign of the septon in evidence, the sept was illuminated by candles, candles burning before the images of the Seven. Only the Stranger had no lights laid before him, his idol was dark and almost hidden by the shadows. So it was in the Eyrie too. So it was in every Sept that Harry had ever set foot in.

Harry stepped inside, stopping when he saw that he was not the first to enter in the sacred place. A young woman sat near the front of the sept, head bowed before the altar and the icons of the Seven.

It felt indecent to linger, as though he were intruding upon something not only private but, in its own way, sacrosanct. _As though? There is no as though about it, you are intruding._ Harry made to back out of the sept, but the squeak of his boots on the stone alerted her and she raised her head up from her contemplations, turning to look at him. It was Lady Catelyn, her face pale and said pallor making the blue of her eyes gleam brighter still if that were possible. "Ser Hal?"

Harry bowed his head. "Forgive me, my lady, it was not my intent to disturb you. I will leave you be."

"Please, ser, let me not keep you from the solace of the Seven," Catelyn said quickly, half rising from her seat. "I'm sure this holy place has room for both of us."

Harry paused in the doorway. "Some might call it improper for us to be alone together thus."

Catelyn smiled, prettily and with just a hint of humour in it. "Alone together, ser? Are we not with the Seven? Are they not chaperone enough to satisfy anyone?"

Harry chuckled. "You make a compelling point, my lady," he said, as he swept his gaze across the icons of the Seven. He walked into the sept, and took a seat at the front, across the aisle from Lady Catelyn. "You are up early, my lady."

"If that is so then it is no less true of you, ser."

"Indeed," Harry murmured, as he clasped his hands together and stared up at the Warrior. "I could not sleep."

"The early morn is the only time for quiet contemplation, I have found," Catelyn said softly. "At any other time...Septon Talbot is a good man, but he insists on trying to pry my concerns out of me rather than letting me send my thoughts straight to the Seven."

"You have concerns, my lady?" Harry said, looking across the aisle at her.

It wasn't until she looked back at him with a raised eyebrow and an expression that was both amused and bemused in equal measure that he realised what he'd done. He cringed a little. "I apologise, my lady."

A contemplative, companionable silence settled between the two of them for a moment. It was broken by Lady Catelyn, who said, "My lady mother wed my lord father in this sept. I would that she were here to see me wed in my turn."

"Indeed, my lady, I wish that also for myself," Harry murmured. "Yet the Seven themselves have decreed it should be otherwise."

Catelyn nodded solemnly. "The Father is just...but he can be cruel, also."

Harry looked at her for a moment; her beauty was striking in the candle-light, the way it shone upon her skin. He looked away, feeling embarrassed and hoping that his face did not reflect it. That was not why he was here, not in this sept and certainly not in this castle. Catelyn was promised to another man, Ned's own brother what was more.

 _Brandon Stark,_ he thought. _Is a very lucky man._

He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and prayed for the Mother to clear his mind, and also for the Maiden to keep him honest against temptation. He prayed to the Warrior for courage and success to please his father both alike, and he prayed to the Father above that he might, if not right now then someday, find answers to why he was so touched by these inexplicable visions.

"What do you pray for, Ser Harry?"

Harry raised his head. A slight smile creased his features. "I pray to win your sister's hand, my lady. And you?"

Catelyn's look was cool. "I pray to the Mother to make me a good wife, and to give me many children."

The answer was so boringly generic that it could only have been purposefully so, although it took Harry a moment to realise that she meant it as a reflection of his own response. "Forgive me, my lady," he said. "I meant neither disrespect nor insult. In truth...I pray that my bad dreams may come to an end."

Catelyn looked at him for a moment, studying him, before she nodded. "It is Lysa that I pray for," she confessed. "I pray to all the Seven that she shall be happy."

"Is your sister unhappy?"

"She is to be sold, to this man or to that, upon my father's will," Catelyn said. "Is that a thing to breed contentment?"

Harry's mouth tightened. "Speaking as this man, my lady, I take your point and acknowledge the iniquity of it for all that I do not see it can be helped. It is the lot of women."

"It is," Catelyn agreed. "But some are born better suited to bear it than others."

"Lysa-"

"Is young, younger in some ways than the years which divide us," Catelyn said. "Are you a kind man, ser?"

"I...I am," Harry replied. "I try to be."

Catelyn nodded. "Lysa is deserving of kindness."

"No less are you, my lady."

Catelyn smiled, if only very slightly. "I...I am my father's daughter, ser. If it is my duty to bear the alternate then I will do my duty, as a Tully should."

 _If someone? Brandon Stark? Does she fear his cruelty?_ "My...my Lady Catelyn, I...I do not know precisely of whom you speak and if you cannot say I will not pry but...but if you are afraid, if you are in need...you need only speak the word and I will protect you, if you wish it so." He paused, frowning, half-expecting to be rebuked for his impertinence. Half of him feared that he had gone too far; the other half knew that less far than that he could not have gone. As no rebuke came, and Lady Cately said nought at all, Harry felt more words spilling out of him. "As for your sister, my lady...I did not wholly lie when I said I prayed the choice should fall on me, although if only in part because my lord father desires it so. But if the choice should fall upon my head, then...I give you my solemn word, upon my honour and within this sacred place, that I will be to her as kind and gentle as a maid deserves; and if I cannot make her happy then at least I further vow that I will never give her cause to fear or hate me."

Catelyn stared at him for a moment, and then a moment more and then a third. Her blue eyes were lovely but inscrutable. He could not guess what thoughts might lie within them.

Silently, she rose from her seat. "Thank you, Ser Harry. For all that you have said and offered." She favoured him with a gentle smile. "It is good to know that there is still a true knight out of song and in the world. Now I will leave you to your own contemplations."

"You're business is concluded, my lady?"

"I have prayed," Catelyn said. "And the Seven have answered."

As she walked away, and as he watched her walk away, Harry thought that Brandon Stark was a very, very lucky man.

* * *

Jousting was nine tenths horsemanship, and as he watched Jaime Lannister tilt at the quintain in the yard at Riverrun it was clear that the Lannister heir was a very skilled horseman. Harry, who had been told often enough that he was a fairly prodigious rider himself, and who had - he flattered himself - proved that he was a fair horseman in tourney lists up and down the Vale and beyond, could only watch the Lannister heir tilt with a creeping sense that he could not at first explain. It was only as he continued to watch the squire practice that Harry understood just what it was that was creeping up his spine: it was the uncomfortable sensation of watching the rise of the sun that would eclipse. Jaime Lannister was not quite his equal yet - although already he was so skilled that he would have unhorsed Ned and Robert both with ease had he come across them in the lists - but that was the result of the age difference, not of any superior skill on Harry's part. When the boy became a man, Jaime Lannister would surpass him he had no doubt.

Jaime dismounted, clearly done for the morn, and began to lead his horse back towards the stables. He stopped when he saw Harry, and for a moment he looked almost surprised to see him there; perhaps he had not expected nor desired to be watched. But that moment of surprise soon passed and he recovered his usual Lannister arrogance and he smiled, verging upon smirking. When he spoke, his tone was smug and superior as though by the very act of watching him Harry had conferred on him the laurels of supremacy between the two. "Ser Harry, I trust I gave good sport to your eyes. I would hate to have bored you."

"Not at all," Harry said. "You rode very well."

"I always ride well."

Harry smiled. "A more modest squire might have said 'I had a good horse'."

"My horse was adequate for my needs," Jaime replied in a tone of easy amusement. "If not, perhaps, quite as adequate as yours."

"My horse is more than adequate for my needs," Harry said. He paused. "You watched me."

"It would have been an unfair exchange if I had not," Jaime said. "You, too, rode well, ser."

"I had a very good horse," Harry said.

Jaime chuckled. "Modesty is like shit, Ser Harry, there's enough going around without spreading it on purpose. I have to say, Ser, that all you're accomplishing is to make it seem as though you want people to flatter you, and reassure you that you are as great as you think you are."

Harry's eyebrows rose. _A response that says more about you than it does about me, I think._ "I...that is certainly a perspective I haven't heard before. I know not what to say to it."

Jaime laughed again. "Well, if you are bored of speaking in tongues then perhaps you would rather speak in lances. We would be well matched against one another, I think."

Harry folded his arms and looked down at the stones of the courtyard for a moment. "I fear, young lord, that that would, for now at least, be a contest that favours you far more than I."

"Indeed," Jaime's tone verged upon greedy. "Do I frighten you, ser?"

"No, although I apologise if I misled you so," Harry said quickly. "If were to joust, and I unhorsed you, then everyone would say that it was only to be expected that an anointed knight and a man grown should unhorse a squire and a boy. Some might even question why I lowered myself so as to contest with you and all the while no shame will attach to your defeat at all; likely you will be admired for your courage. But, if you best me, then you will be lauded for the accomplishment while I shall be shamed beyond the bounds of ordinary defeat. So you see, there is no advantage in it for me, and no risk at all for you."

"So you do fear me," Jaime said. "That is all I heard."

Harry shook his head. _Was_ _I ever such a cocky little bastard when I was his age?_ "I would like nothing better than to joust against you," he said. "But when you are a man grown, and a knight. Try not to keep me waiting too long."

Jaime Lannister flushed at the implication that he was not yet a man, although he quickly mastered his temper at the insult. His voice, when it returned, was as languid as ever. "Indeed, ser? I will try not to keep you waiting too long. After all, you'll be an old man in a few years time and there'll be no sport in that, will there?"

Harry stared at Jaime. Jaime stared at Harry. Their smiles were fixed in place, and mutual dislike sat in one another's eyes.

Jaime Lannister departed the next day, yielding up a contest that he had not - if he spoke true - wanted to win in the first place. Harry stood at the gates of Riverrun to bid him farewell.

"Ah, Ser Harry," Jaime said, as he mounted his horse. "Come to commiserate with me in my defeat? Or have you taken my stricture on modesty to heart and come to lord your triumph over me?"

"My triumph?" Harry said, as he stood in the shadow of the gatehouse. "Have I won something? I was not aware."

Jaime laughed. "Oh, Ser Hal, how very ungallant of you. And here for a moment I almost took you for a true knight, but now hear you profane a maiden's virtue so. And after you beat me like a stranger cur for doing the same just the day before yesterday."

Harry's look darkened. "I spoke not to insult the Lady Lysa, but to correct your assumption that I have won her hand. No contract has been sealed between Lord Hoster and my father."

"Perhaps not," Jaime said, looking around. "But I don't see any other suitors clamouring at the gates for Lysa Tully's hand in marriage, do you?"

Harry shrugged. "Nevertheless, no contract has been agreed."

"It will," Jaime said, with blithe confidence. He looked down at the knight before him. "In truth, Ser Harry, Lysa Tully could probably do far worse than a man like you, heir to Arryn as you are and much else beside."

Harry paused, and said nothing while he searched through Jaime's words for the dagger that lay behind them.

Jaime laughed. "I swear by the Seven, ser, there is no offence in it."

"Then I thank you for the courtesy," Harry said softly. "My lord, may I ask you a question?"

"I do not guarantee an answer."

"Why did you so disdain this prize?" Harry asked him. "You are your father's heir of Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock and all its riches; but Lady Lysa is herself sprung from a great house, old and honourable."

"Old?" Jaime said, with a slight scoff in his voice. "Compared to Lannister and Arryn the Tullys are so new as to scarcely register."

"Nevertheless," Harry said. "You will scarcely find a richer prize."

Jaime smiled. "Would you believe me, ser, if I told you that it wasn't about the prize; that I had someone who, though she brought me no lands or dowry, nevertheless has claimed my heart and bound it in iron chains."

"I would say you sound as romantic as a singer," Harry said. He was silent for a moment, considering the boy - no, the young man - before him. "And yet, I would also say that you sound for once sincere. You are very fortunate."

"Fortunate?"

"To be in love."

Jaime snorted. "To be a fool, you mean?"

"Fortunate," Harry repeated.

"Fortunate," Jaime said. "Yes, yes, I do believe I am. Good day, Ser Harry. When I am grown, I will look for you in the tourney lists."

"And when you are grown I will find you there," Harry replied. "Good day, Jaime Lannister, and fare thee well."

Jaime rode out of the gates and across the drawbridge with a clatter of hooves. He rode down the road that followed the Red Fork towards Pinkmaiden, thence no doubt to turn west for the Golden Tooth. Harry watched him, until the drawbridge was raised and the gates were closed.

Collyn approached him from behind. "Congratulations, ser."

"The deal isn't sealed yet, Coll."

"What can forestall it now, ser?"

"I'm not sure, Collyn," Harry said. "But I'm sure that something could."

* * *

Indeed, it appeared that Lord Hoster no more considered the matter settled by the departure of Jaime Lannister from Riverrun than Harry did. For all that Harry knew he was still negotiating with Lord Tywin by raven, and with Lord Jon as well, seeing what the lords of Westerlands and Vale might offer him for his daughter's hand. Certainly he did not summon Harry to his solar, nor anywhere for any private meeting, to discuss the making of a marriage contract. But he marked Harry at dinner, and his eyes seemed to fall upon him more often than not.

Harry continued to be seated close to Lysa at the dining table, and he continued to have difficulty striking up any sort of conversation with the shy, withdrawn girl, whom only Petyr Baelish could enliven. Harry made an effort...but somehow it was always easier to fall to talking with the Lady Catelyn, whose wit, vivacity and intellect continued to impress him. He would attempt to dance with Lysa, but she tired easily - or at least she excused herself on grounds of tiredness, though she seemed more energetic around Petyr Baelish - whereas Catelyn seemed possessed of boundless energy. She danced so gracefully, she was so fair of feature and so delicate...there were times when it was a great effort for Harry to recall that she was betrothed to another man, and that it was Lysa he was here to woo.

He tried to keep that at the forefront of his mind - the somewhat disapproving looks he got from Lord Hoster when Harry seemed to focus too much upon Catelyn helped in that regard - and he tried his best to keep at it to little avail.

It was when he was finally able to get some time with Lysa alone - well, not alone for there was a cross-eyed septa in attendance as her chaperone, but that was as close to alone as any man would be allowed to get with a highborn maid who was not his sister or his daughter - that Harry had it confirmed for him beyond all doubt of what was going on and how things stood in Riverrun.

Lysa looked around anxiously, her blue eyes darting this way and that. She clasped her pale hands together in her lap, dry-washing them for a moment. She clutched at the folds of her scarlet gown.

"Is Petyr really that poor?" she asked.

Harry blinked in surprise. "My lady?"

"He says he is, and Father says he is too, but I don't know," Lysa said. "You know him, don't you? Is it true? Is he really so poor as they all say?"

"Lysa!" hissed the cross-eyed septa. "That is not an appropriate question for-"

"It makes no mind, Septa, I am prepared to answer," Harry said, holding up one hand as he leaned back in his chair. "I...I don't actually know Lord Baelish personally, but as one of my lord father's bannermen I know of him. I am afraid that all you have been told of his poverty is true; though Lord Baelish is a valiant man, his lands are poor and small in acreage, and his smallfolk few in number."

"Oh." Lysa looked down at her hands. Then her face brightened as she looked back up at Harry. "Oh, but Petyr's so clever and I'm sure he'll rise so high in spite of all of that. He's really the cleverest person I've ever met and I-"

"Lysa!" snapped the septa once again. "You embarrass yourself and insult your father's guest with this absurd display."

"Please, septa, stay your wrath," Harry said gently. He laughed just a little. "I am my father's only son, but...but there are many times when I feel as though I have two brothers regardless. Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark, my father's wards; we've grown up together, we three. Though we share no blood they...they are my family."

He watched Lysa's face. He did not believe, and the way that her face flushed for a moment confirmed to him that he was right not to believe it, that her feelings for Petyr Baelish were fraternal. But he had offered her a way out, and Lysa was not foolish enough to ignore it. She smiled at him. "Yes, of course. Petyr is like my brother. I love him. I'm sure he'll do such great things one day."

Harry nodded, and his heart was filled with pity for the girl before him. She loved Petyr Baelish, in that she had spoken true. Harry did not know the young man well enough to say whether there was enough in him that was worthy of love but, regardless, Lysa loved him. But she would not marry him. Lord Hoster Tully would never allow one of his daughters to wed the only son of the least of all lords in the Vale. He had betrothed on daughter to the heir to Winterfell, he was negotiating with the heirs to the lords of Lannister and Arryn; he would not stoop from such lofty heights to give away Lysa to a boy of no account. Lord Baelish had saved his life in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but gratitude only stretched so far; Lord Hoster probably considered the debt well paid with his wardship of Petyr. Did he know how his daughter felt? Probably not, or he would have sent Petyr away by now.

It was doomed, and yet Harry - as he thought of the way that he had seen Lysa and Petyr behave together, the way that young Baelish seemed the only person capable of bringing her out of her shell, he found he did not have it in his heart to condemn them. Rather, doomed though it was he found he wished them well. It was always a good thing that there should be more love in the world.

He smiled inwardly at that thought. It was a most unmanly thought, uncalled for by his station, and if Robert had heard him saying anything like that then Harry would never have heard the end of the ribbing over it. But it was true, and how he truly felt for all that he could not explain how he had come by such a feeling.

 _I am as foolish fond and sentimental as Lysa herself, no doubt._

They talked inconsequentially for a little while longer, before Harry rose and excused himself from Lysa's presence. He paused in the doorway, half turned away from her. "Lady Lysa?"

"Yes, ser?"

Harry affixed her with a solemn look. "We all have our secrets, my lady; yours, I vow, are safe with me."

Lysa's eyes widened. "I...I thank you, ser."

Harry nodded, and smiled gently as he turned away, shutting the chamber door behind him.

He began to walk back towards his own guest chamber down the stone corridor.

"How did it go, ser? How is my sister?"

Harry stopped, as Lady Catelyn stepped out of an adjoining corridor in front of him. Her look was somewhat anxious, as if she were concerned about how Harry might have left her sister by the time they were done.

Harry clasped his hands behind his back. "Lady Lysa is very well, Lady Catelyn; I thought you trusted me more than to think that I would hurt her."

"I didn't think you'd do it on purpose," Catelyn replied. "But Lysa...she can be...you might not mean to, but..."

"I understand," Harry murmured, sparing her from further tortuous effort to define what it was that she had been worried about. "I'm sure you'll find I left her well and in good spirits." He looked away from her, and a sigh escaped his lips.

"But you are troubled by something, ser?"

Harry glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. How much did she know about her sister and Petyr? He couldn't believe that she was unaware, as lacking in subtlety as Lysa was. "I...I am coming to see little purpose in remaining here, my lady. I think that I must take my leave soon."

"Why?" Catelyn asked quickly. Her eyes narrowed. "Does my sister displease you as she displeased Jaime Lannister?"

"My pleasure or otherwise is not the issue," Harry replied. "Jaime Lannister took his leave because another pleased him; I take my leave because another pleases Lady Lysa."

Catelyn looked confused. Genuinely confused. Did she not know? Did she have no idea? "What do you speak of, ser?"

Harry frowned. "Details are not mine to divulge, but...I fear I have said too much already. Suffice to say that your father and mine may do as they see fit, but there is little for me here."

Catelyn advanced upon him. Her head was bowed, but when she was close - perhaps a little too close - she raised her eyes, soft and beautiful, to meet his gaze. "I...I don't want you to go, ser."

She was so lovely, and so close, and so betrothed to another man besides. Harry forced himself to ignore the throbbing in his cock as he stepped away from her. "My lady, I...I must go." He walked quickly away without another word, nor did Catelyn say aught else as he strode away from her.

* * *

Catelyn Tully leaned against the wall and let out a deep sigh of longing.

She had never felt this way before. Harry made her feel...she didn't know what to call. Or rather, she was afraid that she did.

He was so handsome, his eyes were so bright and so green and they looked so...and he was so gallant and...she sighed again.

At first her interest in the young knight of the Vale had been strictly sororal. She had wanted to know what kind of man her sister was to marry, and to reassure herself that sweet, shy Lysa would be safe with him. But, while Lysa had continuous shied away from any contact or conversation with Harry, Catelyn had found that as she talked with him, and danced with him, she had liked what she found there. She liked it not only for Lysa, but for herself.

Brandon Stark was handsome, to be sure. Handsome and strong. Some might say that he was more handsome than Harry, what with his broad shoulders and his lantern jaw. But he was also boorish, crude, and he looked at her with such devouring hunger that...to be frank it made Cat shiver a little. Harry was...Harry was...Harry was not for her.

Whatever she felt in regards to him, whatever he might feel in regards ot her, it was not to be. She was betrothed to Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, and her father would not shame himself or incur the enmity of the North by breaking that betrothal, nor would she dishonour herself by asking him to do so. She was a good girl, a good Tully: Family, Duty, Honour. It was a hard path, perhaps, but it was the one that she was born to walk. She would do her duty and wed Brandon Stark...and close her eyes and think of a pair of bright green eyes fixed upon her.

"Cat? Is something wrong?"

Catelyn opened her eyes. Petyr stood beside her, his head cocked a little to one side, his face concerned. His voice was tender, as gentle as a caress. He was such a sweet boy, and kind.

Catelyn smiled down at him. "No, Petyr. Nothing's wrong."

"Are you sure?" he pressed. "You seemed distracted by something. If something's wrong I can help." He took a step closer to her. "Let me help you, Cat."

"There is nothing wrong," Catelyn repeated, reassuringly. "I was just...I was just thinking about my marriage, that's all. You don't need to worry about me, Petyr."

Petyr's smile was a little thin. "I'll always worry about you, Cat."

Catelyn laughed. "That's sweet of you, but not necessary." Her brow furrowed. "Petyr?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know..." she sought for a way to say it. "Lysa talks to you, she confides in you more than me...do you know if she...have any of the squires caught her eye, or one of father's young knights, or...anyone?" It was the explanation she could conceive of for what Harry had said. There were some handsome squires and knights in Father's household, it wasn't impossible that she might have become enamoured of one of them. If she had, it would have to be nipped in the bud. Father would never agree to a match like that, not when he had such grand designs for both his daughters.

Petyr's face was utterly guileless. "No," he said. "No, I don't know anything about that."

Catelyn nodded. Petyr would never lie to her, he wasn't capable of it. "I suppose I shall have to ask her then, but...thank you, Petyr, you put my mind at ease."

"You could be honest with me, in turn," Petyr said. "What's really going on, Cat? What's really on your mind?"

Catelyn chuckled. "I was thinking...I was thinking about the clash between duty and desire. About how the things that we have to do...are not always the things that we want to do."

Petyr stared at her. The expression that blossomed on his face was unreadable to her, she could not understand it any more than she could understand why his voice suddenly took on such a tone of excitement. "You want more than your lord father has planned for you?"

"I suppose...I suppose that I want else," Catelyn admitted. She would not have spoken so to anyone else, not even to Uncle Brynden, but Petyr...Petyr was her brother as much as Edmure was, and unlike Edmure he knew how to keep his mouth shut. There was something about him that invited confidence. She found it hard keeping secrets from him, that was why she had hoped that Lysa would have confided in him too.

Petyr smiled. "I always knew that there was more to you than duty, Cat."

"I will still do my duty," Catelyn said.

"Why, if it doesn't make you happy?"

"What should I do instead?"

"Whatever will make you happy."

"No matter the cost?"

"Why should you condemn yourself for the sake of others?" Petyr demanded. "Why should you sacrifice yourself for them?"

"Because I am a Tully," Catelyn declared. "You might not understand that, perhaps you cannot...but it is who I am."

Petyr shook his head. "The world doesn't deserve you, Cat. Brandon Stark doesn't deserve you, none of them do."

Catelyn laughed aloud, and shook her head as she said, "You are too kind, sweet boy." And she bent down to kiss him on the forehead.

He was her little brother, and so kind that she loved him for it. And she always would.

* * *

 _Author's Note: So...yeah, that was a long gap, wasn't it? Sorry about that. The next update will hopefully not be as long in coming._


	7. The Stolen Kiss

The Stolen Kiss

Lord Hoster Tully sat in his solar drinking red dornish wine. A second silver cup sat beside Harry's hand as he took another seat opposite his lord.

The solar itself was cluttered, mostly with documents of one kind or another, and Harry guessed that this was where Lord Hoster worked. A stack of books sat on a small table in one corner of the room.

Lord Hoster noticed Harry looking that way, and smiled indulgently. "My daughter Cat will read to me sometimes, when my eyes tire overmuch from work. I shall be sad to see her go to Winterfell, for all that I know it's for the best for her."

"If he is anything like his brother Eddard then Brandon Stark is a fine man," Harry said softly. "He will make a fine husband, no doubt."

Lord Hoster nodded. "Yes, he…he will make my Cat happy, I am sure. And her children will inherit Winterfell and the North."

Harry took a sip of the harsh Dornish wine while he waited for Lord Hoster to explain why he had asked the knight of the Vale to join him here. He could not believe it was to talk about Cat.

Unless…unless he had some inclination? Harry's blood chilled for a moment before he relaxed, reminding himself that nothing had actually happened between them. He had feelings, and he thought that Lady Catelyn might feel something too, but it wasn't as if either of them had acted on those feelings. There was nothing for Lord Hoster to chide him over. Certainly nothing that could disgrace Harry or stain the honour of the Arryn line.

Lord Hoster, too, drank of his wine. Some of it stained his beard a deeper red than it had been before. He set down the goblet and clenched his hands together. "I am told you wish to take leave of my hospitality, Ser Harry. Does Riverrun so fatigue you that you cannot bear to remain? You have not been gone long enough to be homesick."

Harry smiled. "I am sure, my lord, that there are those who could grow homesick in less time then my stay here, but, I confess, that is not it."

"Then why do you seek to go?"

"Because I do not see why I was ever here, my lord," Harry replied. "If you wish to make a marriage pact between Lady Lysa and myself you could simply arrange matters by raven with my father. Seven know that you don't need my consent, and you certainly don't need hers. There is no need for us to meet beforehand, to approve of one another. My brides don't meet their husbands until the wedding day."

"True," Lord Hoster allowed. "But what of that? Am I not allowed my foibles or my eccentricities?"

"You are the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my lord, you are allowed whatever you wish," Harry said. "But that doesn't mean that I am allowed no wishes of my own."

"You do not like my younger daughter? You prefer her betrothed sister perhaps?"

Harry became very still. "I know not of what my lord speaks."

"I am not blind, Ser Hal," Lord Hoster said. "I have seen you dance attendance on my elder daughter when you ought to have pursued the younger."

"If you have been watching, my lord, you will know that I have tried," Harry said. "Lady Catelyn is an easier companion than her sister, that I grant, but I have tried."

Lord Hoster nodded. "That you have, ser. Although it seems that you do not wish to try any more."

Harry sighed. "If I am to wed Lady Lysa then I will," he said. _Although I'd rather have Catelyn._ "But, if you're motive in inviting me here, or Jaime Lannister for that matter, was for any purpose of love then…I fear her eyes upon another light."

"I am well aware of on whom my Lysa's eyes alight," Lord Hoster growled as he rose to his feet. "That stripling boy, I've seen her making eyes at him. She practically moons over him. There are times when I regret taking him as my ward."

Harry clasped his hands together. "I take it, lord, that a Baelish match does not enter into consideration?"

Hoster glared at him so fiercely that Harry shrank back in his seat a little.

"Of course not," Harry answered his own question. _Much too poor, and too lowborn._

Lord Hoster turned away, clasping his hands together behind his back as he strode over to the window.

"I am not blind to the fact that you must think this strange," Lord Hoster said. "No doubt your father and Lord Tywin found it strange as well. And you are right, I could have arranged a match with Jon, or with Lord Tywin, via raven and you – or Jaime – need never have set eyes on Lysa till the appointed day. I could have kept Cat and young Stark separated until then also. But I did not do so, and I do not wish to do so now."

"You do the right thing, my lord," Harry said softly. Amongst his father's friends – Lord Hoster, and Lord Rickard Stark – it seemed such consideration for their daughters was, pleasantly, something approaching normal. Lyanna and Robert had met more than once, and Robert professed himself smitten by her beauty and her gentle loveliness. It didn't stop him from sleeping around in the meantime but then they weren't wed yet, and Harry was of the opinion that they were both entitled to enjoy their primrose days before marriage came calling.

Although even then what Lord Hoster was doing – or seemed to be doing – was unusual. It wasn't as if Lord Rickard had waited on his daughter's leave to make the match with Robert, and if Brandon Stark had had to woo Lady Catelyn Harry was unaware of it. Why then, was Lord Hoster putting Lady Lysa's suitors through their paces thus contrary to custom?

"I love my daughters," Lord Hoster declared. "For many years, until the gods saw fit to grant me Edmure and at the same time take Minisa away, I thought that the rule of Riverrun and all my lands would fall to Cat when I was gone. Now it is not so, but all the same…I love my daughters. I would see them well matched and happily, that I may know that they will be well cared for when I am gone."

Harry was silent for a moment, drinking the sour wine to cover himself while he considered. He half-thought that if Lord Hoster wished for his daughter to be happy he would allow her to marry Petyr Baelish; but that was hardly the sort of thing one could say to one's host. And in any case, the charm of being Lady Baelish might well wear off if Lysa had to live in what Harry understood to be a rather pokey windswept tower on the coast of the Fingers. "So you wish to see your daughters married not only to great lords but also to good husbands?"

"So you see, Ser Harry, that your visit here is not for your benefit, nor even so much for Lysa's as for mine."

"Indeed, my lord," Harry murmured. "And, um, how have I done so far?"

"If you could focus your attention upon Lysa rather than Cat it would be a good start," Lord Hoster said. But his voice softened a little as he turned back to face Harry once more. "But I am not unimpressed. I think that you would take care of my Lysa."

"I would try my best, my lord," Harry said earnestly, for he most devoutly hoped that he could never be so vile or wretched as to treat his wife cruelly, no matter the circumstances of their marriage.

"I am prepared to bend Lysa to my will in this matter, to bear her misery now for the sake of her future contentment," Lord Hoster continued. "But I would rather that she be reconciled to the match to some degree."

"Then you no longer consider Lannister."

"I did not say that, but Jaime Lannister is no longer here," Lord Hoster replied. "Please, Ser Harry, stay a little while longer. Stay for the hunt, at least." He resumed his seat, and drank once more of his Dornish red. "I know that Lysa can be…I know that she is not her sister but please, Ser, I love her no less dearly. Stay, for the love between our houses."

Harry considered, and drained the last of his wine while he did so. If he returned to the Eyrie his father might not be best pleased with him. Negotiations could be carried out by raven, but it was clear that Harry had not sealed the deal, proving himself to be beyond doubt a better man than Jaime Lannister. Lannister was gone, but Harry would clearly need to up his game a little if he wanted to make his father proud.

There were times when Harry suspected that his father loved Ned and Robert more than him, though he had never voiced those suspicions to either of them, much less to his lord father himself. This was the first chance he'd really gotten serve the Vale and impress his father. So could he really refuse a further chance to succeed? He thought not. And besides…

And besides, the pleasures of Riverrun were not to be denied. Although he had been warned from spending too much time with Catelyn, the fact remained that to spend a little more time in her company was not an opportunity to be sneered at.

Harry smiled slightly. "Very well, ser. I will stay, until the hunt at least."

* * *

Knights and lords and eager young squires rode up and down upon the meadow, accompanied by hordes of barking boarhounds that flocked around their heels. Falcons flew from the hands of their masters, while guards on foot crashed through the thicket with spears and crossbows at the ready trying to drive the quarry out into the open.

Harry held out his arm and let Hedwig fly, less because he wanted her to find something – he couldn't really say that he was interested – and more because she'd been cooped up in the falconry at Riverrun for weeks and she must be dying to get some real flying in.

"Off you go, girl, stretch your wings," he said. "I'll whistle when it's time to return."

Hedwig shrieked at him as she took flight into the endless blue.

Harry smiled. _Don't worry, I'll give you a decent time up there._

He cast his green eyes over the horsemen below – he and his mount stood atop a slight rise with the bulk of the Tully hunting party some way below – before turning his gaze upon Lady Lysa. She sat silent, demure and side-saddle atop a roan mare, with her parti-coloured gown of red and blue hanging down one side of the horse halfway to the ground. Her red hair hung loose down behind her back, save for a few strands falling before her shoulders, and her head was bowed slightly down. Her expression was as downcast as her head, almost forlorn, as if she had been completely forsaken in the world.

That might have had something to do with the fact that Petyr Baelish was focussing all his attention upon Lady Catelyn, a little way away, or it might have been something else altogether.

 _I suppose I won't know unless I ask her about it._

Harry nudged his horse with his knees, bearing him closer to Lady Lysa. He had made an effort – more of an effort – these last few days leading up to the hunt, and he fancied that she was starting to open up to him a little more.

They were both under the shade of a broad willow tree, and the sunlight dappled through its awnings to fall upon them both in fits and starts.

"You do not enjoy the hunt, Lady Lysa?" Harry asked gently.

"No, ser," Lysa murmured. "I take no pleasure in it, although…I'm surprise that you don't seem to either."

"I can take no joy in the death of a dumb beast," Harry said. "There is no honour in it."

"Honour," Lysa repeated, investing the word with a note of scorn.

"Something troubles you, my lady?" Harry asked. "Something more than your disinterest in the hunt."

Lysa didn't look at him, or raise her head at all, but he thought he saw her glance towards her sister and Petyr for a moment. "I don't understand why we have to put words like honour and duty before our happiness. I don't understand why we can't just do the things that make us happy, no matter what other people say. I don't understand why some people are so much more fortunate than others."

"As for the latter, my lady, you will have to speak to a septon for I know not," Harry said. "But as for the former two: if we thought only of our own happiness would we be any better than the beasts that your father and his men hunt? Are we not men because we can put others ahead of ourselves?"

"But why should we condemn ourselves to misery for the sake of other people?" Lysa demanded. Now she looked at him. "Why can't we live as we wish to, love as we wish to, without needing the permission of old men who only disapprove because they don't understand how we feel?"

"I think you do your father wrong, my lady. He loves you dearly."

Lysa's face reddened. "I didn't…I'm not…I…forgive me, ser, I spoke out of turn."

She looked away, and Harry could feel the greater chill in the air.

 _That was the wrong thing to say, clearly._

He glanced up, and an idea struck him to hopefully salvage this situation. He reached up and plucked a leaf from the willow tree that spread its eaves above them. Pressing the leaf to his lips, he began to blow into it.

A squeaky sound, partway between a horn and a whistle, emerged filtered by the leaf before his lips.

Lysa gasped, looking at him with surprise in her blue eyes.

Harry whistled at her, blowing a long note on his leaf, and then a couple of shorter ones. He smiled, as much she could see his lips what with the leaf and all, and whistled again.

Lysa began to giggle, covering her mouth with one hand as laughter emerged from between her lips. Harry blew on the leaf a little more.

Lysa was still smiling as she plucked a leaf of her own from the tree above and tried to blow through it. No sound emerged but the sound of blowy breath.

"Hold it like this, my lady," Harry said. "With your fingers on either side, pressing it to your mouth. Yes, that's right. Now, blow."

Lysa blew, and this time she achieved the same whistling sound that Harry had made. She seemed so absurdly pleased that Harry's smile broadened, and they whistled at each other for a while before Lysa removed the leaf from her mouth.

"I've never heard anything like that," she gasped. "Where did you learn to do that, Ser Harry?"

"I learnt it from a farmboy on my father's land," Harry said. "And please, my lady, Harry will be fine. There is no need to stand upon my knighthood."

"Harry," Lysa murmured, as if she were trying on his name to see how it fit in her mouth.

"Or Hal, if you'd rather; many of my friends use it."

Lysa chuckled. "You're not a usual knight, Harry. You're really very-"

Whatever Harry might really very have been was interrupted by something moving in the thicket to Lysa's right. She looked that way, and Harry put a hand to the hilt of his sword as he urged his horse a trifle forward.

The boar burst out of the thicket squealing and snarling, legs pounding as it tore across the hillside and darted in front of Lysa's horse before it turned away. Lysa's roan reared in panic, and Lysa panicked too, squealing in fright as she fumbled for the reins.

And then the horse was off, racing down the hill and away, and carrying Lysa with it.

"Help!" Lysa screamed, as she clung to her horse for dear life as it bore her away. "Somebody help!"

Harry urged his own mount forward, driving his knees into the flanks of the destrier as a trot became a canter became quickening to a gallop. His horse tore across the meadow, and though Lysa's mare was running swift Harry's warhorse proved its equal, if not its better, as it churned up the sod with its hooves in pursuit of Lysa. Voices called out to him, but Harry ignored them. There was nothing but Lysa now, Lysa and the chase.

Lysa's horse, senseless in its distress, carried her through the edge of a forest and into a tiny stream that somewhere would join up with one of the tributaries of the Trident. Water splashed from the hooves of the horse as it stormed through the water.

 _I have to stop it soon,_ Harry thought as he rode his own mount down the bank. Any moment now the horse might trip and fall, and then Lysa would…it hardly bore thinking about.

But he wasn't about to let that happen.

Harry had caught up to them by now, and he rode his own horse down the bank of the stream, keeping level with Lysa.

"Hold on, Lysa," he cried. "Just a little longer." He stood up in the saddle, judging the distance between them, how fast they were going, how he'd need to do this.

And then he leapt.

It was probably not the smartest thing to do. Ned, if he'd been there, would have called him a fool. Robert would have thought it was a fine thing, which was probably as great proof of how foolish it was as Ned's condemnation would have been. But Harry was confident that things would work out because, well, things had a way of working out around him. He didn't get hurt when he fell, when he wanted to hide he couldn't be found, when he wanted to get up somewhere he found that he could do just that.

So when he jumped for Lysa's horse he was fairly confident that he wouldn't end up breaking his neck in the stream or getting trampled by said horse or landing anywhere but precisely where he wished to land. And he didn't. He landed behind Lysa but on her horse, and he immediately sawed on the reins, murmuring sweet nothings to the frightened roan until she came to a stop.

They were all alone, having left the rest of the hunting party far behind. Just him and Lysa, sobbing desperately.

Gingerly, Harry placed his hands upon her shoulders. "It's alight, my lady. You're safe now."

Lysa looked up at him through eyes filled with tears, and then she buried her face in his chest as she clung to him, trembling like a leaf.

"Oh, Harry," she gasped, shaking and sobbing. "I was so scared, I…I've never been more scared of anything in my life."

Harry stroked her back gently with one hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of any more."

"No," Lysa agreed. "Because you saved me."

They remained that way, locked in embrace, until the anxious Tully men caught up with them.

* * *

The godswood at Riverrun was large, larger and more spacious than the godswood at the Eyrie - not that that was so much a slight on the Eyrie as an honest reflection of the fact that you simply couldn't get so much room when you were building on the edge of a sheer precipice; in consequence, many things were larger at Riverrun - sprawling across the centre of the castle in the same way that the great weirwood tree sprawled across the centre of the godswood, it's branches blocking out the stars with a canopy of leaves as red as blood.

Harry shivered a little. This being the dead of night, the godswood was appropriately cold for all that it was summer.

The note that brought him here had been anonymous, left on his pillow by someone unknown. A servant, presumably, but as Harry couldn't think of why a servant would want to meet with him in the godswood in the dead of night he also presumed that they had left it on the orders of someone else. But who?

 _I suppose I'll find out when they arrive._

 _If they arrive._

It occurred to him, having been waiting here for a little while already with no sign of the mystery person who had summoned him to this meeting, that this might be someone's idea of joke. He couldn't think it likely, however, if only because he couldn't think of anyone in Riverrun who would find this amusing.

He paced up and down beneath the weirwood tree, shivering occassionally in his doublet of sky blue, rubbing his gloved hands together as he waited for the author of the missive to reveal themselves.

"Ser Hal?"

Harry turned around to see Lady Catelyn walking slowly towards him. She was more than half concealed beneath a long scarlet cloak that fell almost to the ground to shield her from the elements while her hood, thrown up over her face, cast it in shadow. But her voice was unmistakable.

Harry stared at her as she approached. When he spoke his voice was touched by hoarseness. "My lady. This is...an unexpected pleasure."

Catelyn threw back her hood, revealing her delicate features in the moonlight. "Thank you for coming. I...I wasn't sure if you would."

"Your invitation was too intriguing to refuse," Harry said. "Although-"

"Thank you," Catelyn said. "You saved Lysa today."

"I did what was right," Harry said. "Had any other knight been in a position to intervene I'm certain sure they would have done the same."

"But they didn't," Catelyn replied, stepping closer to him until only a couple of paces separated the two of them beneath the weirwood tree. The ancient face carved into the wood seemed to watch the pair of them where no mortal eyes could see. "You did. You saved my sister, and for that you have my thanks."

"Gratitude is no more necessary than reward, my lady," Harry said. A frown besmirched his features. "Lady Catelyn...surely you did not need to summon me to this place upon this hour, nor creep in here yourself, to tell me you are grateful for your sister's life."

"No," Catelyn whispered, but in the silence of the godswood her whispered word carried like a shout. "Harry." She reached for him. "Do you love my sister?"

Harry's green eyes widened a little. _Does she...is this...what do I do?_

He glanced around. There was no one here but them. There was no one to see but the weirwood tree and the lifeless eyes carved into the wood. He took a step forward and reached out for her. "No," he said softly, as he placed his hands upon her arms. He could feel them beneath her cloak. "I fear there is another rose in Riverrun that I desire."

Catelyn stared into his eyes. Harry stared right back. Words passed between them without the need for speech, words of desire and passion, words of the heart that neither of them could put to word, and neither needed to.

It was Catelyn who looked away first. "This is not right," she said. "We should not be here."

"Then why are we here?" Harry asked. "Why did you summon me here?"

"Because I..." Catelyn trailed off. "Because I had to be sure, but...we should not be here."

"But here we are," Harry said. He could feel her shivering beneath her cloak. "Is it the cold that makes you tremble?"

Catelyn shook her head. "I am afraid."

"Of what?" Harry asked. "I can protect you."

"Brandon would kill you if he knew of this."

"I'm not afraid of Brandon Stark."

"You should be," Catelyn replied. She hesitated, her lovely blue eyes darting this way and that in confusion. "I'm afraid of him," she confessed.

Harry's grip upon her arms tightened protectively. "My lady...Catelyn...Cat, has he hurt you?"

"No, of course not," Catelyn replied. "But the way he talks...this was a mistake, goodnight, Ser Harry."

"Please, wait a moment," Harry said, though he released her so that she might go if she wished. She did not go, not yet. "If...if you had a choice-"

"I don't have a choice, and neither do you," Catelyn said desperately. "I know what my duty is."

"Then why are you here?" Harry demanded.

"Because..." Catelyn trailed off, looking at him.

For a moment, all in the godswood was silent.

Then Harry pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

It was wrong. It verged on dishonourable. But at this moment, in this place, Harry found he didn't care.

And by the way she kissed him, and as she kissed him melted into his embrace, neither did she.


End file.
